


Hans' Delivery Service

by FreckledSaint



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kiki's Delivery Service, Childhood, Flying, Friendship, Gen, Magic, My own lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27902932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSaint/pseuds/FreckledSaint
Summary: Hans was like any other child in the village: he was born to a large family, he liked to play outside, he loved animals, and he was fascinated by metropolises. Envy was his sin whenever his brothers left the nest to go study at universities, and nothing delighted him more than when his mother took him to a city to run some errands.While in many ways he was an average villager, there was one notable feature that set him apart from his peers and some of his brothers: Hans was a wizard!
Relationships: Hans & Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider, Hans & Rapunzel (Disney), Hans & Sitron (Disney), Hans & Stabbington Brother(s) (Disney), King of the Southern Isles/Queen of the Southern Isles (Disney), Queen Arianna of Corona/King Frederic of Corona (Disney)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. First Flight

_“Baby-bird, baby-bird,  
Chirping loud and long,  
Other birds hush their words,  
Hearkening toward your song._

_Sweet as spring though it ring,  
Full of love's own lures,  
Weak and wrong sounds their song,  
Singing after yours._

_Baby-bird, baby-bird,  
The happy heart that hears  
Seems to win back within  
Heaven, and cast out fears._

_Earth and sun seem as one  
Sweet light and one sweet word  
Known of none here but one,  
Known of one sweet bird.”_

_A. C. Swinburne._  
  


It was a warm spring day in a little village by the sea. The grass was tall and green, the sky a brilliant blue, and birds sang chipper songs. Idyllic. Peaceful. Villages like these rapidly become a rarity in modernity. Grand metropolises expanded their borders, swallowing nearby settlements like a glutton, and the world spun quicker than a swallow flew.

Still, despite everything, small pockets of quiet had survived. This village happened to be one such pocket. It was home to farmers, field labourers, minute craftsmen, and a thirteen-year-old boy named Hans Westergaard.

Hans was like any other child in the village: he was born to a large family, he liked to play outside, he loved animals, and he was fascinated by metropolises. Envy was his sin whenever his brothers left the nest to go study at universities, and nothing delighted him more than when his mother took him to a city to run some errands.

While in many ways he was an average villager, there was one notable feature that set him apart from his peers and some of his brothers: Hans was a wizard!

Magic was similar to colouring or jawlines in that you inherited it from your parents. From his papa Hans inherited his red hair, green eyes, an inclination to drama, and his surname. His mother meanwhile gave him his jawline, his freckles, his gregariousness, and his magic.

In addition to this innate talent, his mother brought with herself a library’s worth of knowledge and traditions. The latter were quite influential in their household as upon a witch’s or wizard’s thirteenth birthday they must leave the home for one year to gain experience. This custom actually led to the meeting of Hans’ parents!

On the eve following her thirteenth birthday, his mother kissed her own parents goodbye and flew far, far, far away till she found a charming little village by the sea. She landed in the middle of the market square to the great surprise of the inhabitants. Her arrival caused quite a stir, and it caught the attention of a red-haired, green-eyed woman who had heard about witches as a child. Unlike her neighbours, the curious woman did not fear this girl; she asked her name, her trade, and whether or not she wished to lodge at her house.

The witch in turn said, “My name is Kristina Hammersmed. My trade is potion-making; and I would be ever so grateful to be your tenant!”

Smiling at the young witch, the woman took her by the hand and led her to a beautiful house at the south-western end of the village. “I’m called Josefine Westergaard,” she said. “I live with my husband and two sons, the younger being your age. If you ever need anything and I am not around then do feel free to ask him for help. As I am his mother I may biased, but my Erik is an obliging fellow.”

Miss Hammersmed would soon find this out herself. Having set up her shop at the greenhouse attached to the main house, she busied herself with brewing potions against common ailments and quickly noticed that that younger son inconspicuously brought her wildflowers, bowls of cherries, and on a particularly hot day a cup of pineapple ice.

With attentions lovingly paid, the young witch decided she rather liked this quiet boy. She liked him so much that although a year later she went home, six years later she returned to the village as the new Mrs. Westergaard and throughout the next two decades delivered thirteen sons.

Hans was their youngest, and now that he was thirteen it was his turn to leave the next. Technically, he been thirteen for several months already. He celebrated his birthday last November, but his parents refused to see him off at the start of winter.

So, the young boy spent the cold winter months listening to advice from his mother and wizard brothers whether he liked it or not.

On that warm spring day Hans lay on a bed of grass, listening to the weather forecast on his father’s radio. The reporter promised a warm evening with no rainfall, and that the fine weather ought to last for the entire week. He sat up, turned the knob on the device, picked it up, and ran home as fast as he could.

The Westergaard Family was the most respected household in the village of Knight’s Roost. Their home on Fifteen Lionheart Lane was a large, handsome edifice made of pale grey stone. Situated on rising ground, the property enjoyed close proximity to a freshwater brook and an evergreen grove. Colourful flowers bloomed as well. They hugged the walls of the house, lined the path to the front door, and burst with life from the greenhouse.

The latter was a work of art in of itself! Witches were not the only ones with unique traditions – it was custom for the men of Knight’s Roost to present their brides with lavish gifts. Some carved love spoons, others toiled away at their gardens, and Mr. Erik Westergaard renovated his missus’ greenhouse.

Stained glass in every possible shade painted Hans’ skin in a motley of colours as he ran into the greenhouse, which unbeknownst to him was higher and breezier than originally constructed.

“Mother!” he cried out. Then he saw a client of hers and added, “Oh, good day, Madam! Mother, did you hear the weather forecast? It said that tonight there will be no rains or hail! Only a warm breeze!”

“Hansel,” said Mrs. Westergaard, squeezing lavender drops into a beaker, “did you take your father’s radio without permission again?”

“He doesn’t mind!” said Hans defensively, running to her side. “I’ll fly off tonight!”

“What do you mean ‘tonight’?” demanded Mrs. Westegaard. “You said yourself that you’ll postpone the flight till next month.”

“Who knows what the weather will be like tomorrow! And the moon will be full tonight!”

Hans dashed from the greenhouse, leaving behind his stunned mother. Glass beakers bubbled, fumed. Mrs. Westergaard snapped her head back to the stove and cursed under her breath.

“Is he thirteen already?” asked the client. “Time flies, does not it? His flight – it’s tied to that witchy custom, yes?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Mrs. Westergaard, wiping the table clean. “An irrelevant custom if you ask me. It is entirely unsuitable to this day and age. Hans will do better staying at home and continuing his studies with me; but no, he absolutely must have his year abroad.”

The elderly client widened her hazy eyes with rediscovered clarity. “I remember when you came to our village,” she said. “Such a pretty young girl descending from the sky. She held herself with queenly dignity, observing us with unprecedented stateliness!”

Kristina blushed as a smile formed on her lips. “My parents were not very happy when I revealed to them my intention to accept the proposal of a country gentleman when there were urban lordlings aplenty.”

“They did bless the union, yes?”

“Oh, of course!” She decided not to mention how hers and her husband’s parents fought over wedding expenses and added, “I tried to convince my son to spend his year abroad with them. They live in a fine city, and despite their mature age they travel to grander metropolises yet. Imagine my dismay when not even the prospect of Paris or London tempted Hans to accept this arrangement. ‘What about my _independence_?’ he cried.”

The client laughed in sympathy at the maternal plight. Across the property, inside the family home, the boy scooped up his cat into his arms and dashed upstairs to his room, nearly knocking over his brothers along the way.

Hans energetically whipped out a leather suitcase from his wardrobe and started to pack. His brothers had given him a list of necessary items, so he ransacked his shelves accordingly.

“I love the enthusiasm,” said Sitron, his pet cat, “though maybe your decision a bit too hasty.”

“We’ve already postponed like five times,” complained Hans, dropping two nightshirts into the case. “My birthday was in November. It’s already the start of May!”

Sitron sighed, shaking his head, then calmly sat on the bed and watched his best friend compare two waistcoats. Mrs. Westergaard had forbidden her son from taking anything too fancy as the ordeal demanded durability. This scolding – plus the warning that he might ruin his nicer clothes – compelled Hans to stick to his wools and linens.

In went the toiletries, a pair of slippers, all his savings and birthday money, a slim photo album, and two books: _Good Form for All Occasions_ by Mrs. Fernsen and a collection of fairy tales.

Hans went through his room like a midsummer storm. Sitron’s eyes widened when the boy fell to the floor flat on his belly and reached for a map tucked beneath the bed. Like the radio, it belonged to the master of the house and Hans discreetly took it from the study.

Time rendered the map tan and crinkly. Hans unrolled it on the floor, setting items on the four corners to keep it flat, and beckoned Sitron to join him. “Where should we go?” he asked. “How does this place look like to you?”

“Arendelle City?”

“It’s north of here. I heard an elemental witch my age lives there.”

Sitron cocked his head to the side. “Do we really want to go to a city with pre-existing competition? You’re not really good at anything besides flying.”

“Thank you,” said Hans flatly.

“I did not mean it like that!” said Sitron, frantic. “But it is true that you’ve always been better at things regular boys do rather than wizards. You sing and dance, play the violin, and ride horses; yet you’ve never been fond of brewing potions or studying incantations. Remember when Grandmama forced you to memorise the monsters in that massive bestiary? You told me you’d prefer death than another lecture on what sort of silver harms lycanthropes.”

Hans sighed. He couldn’t argue with the truth. Well, he could but he would not. “It’s such a bore,” he said. “And I suppose you’re correct that a sorceress might hamper our success, though frankly I see little practical use of elementals. So, they control water or air. Can they brew potions to soften the pain of arthritis like Mother?”

“I think,” said Sitron, “elementals offer their skills to bounty hunters.”

“Fair enough.” Hans sat up and crossed his legs. “Should we just fly around and see what looks nice? The more I think about it, the less I want to travel really far away. First, it will kill Father. Second, what will happen to us? I don’t fancy going somewhere I don’t speak the language.”

Sitron opened his mouth to say something; however, he was cut off by the sound of a car engine outside. Hans perked up, scrambling to the window and grinning at the sight of his father. “Father!” he shouted. “I’m going to fly off tonight!”

His father, who had just exited his automobile, furrowed his brows. “What? Hans, we planned to go camping next month. I even rented a tent!” he said, slapping the aforementioned tent on the roof of the car.

“I’m sorry!” apologized Hans with a sheepish laugh. “But the weather will be so fine tonight! I’ve no choice but to go!”

Erik blinked. Then he saw Sitron jump onto the windowsill as his son disappeared. The cat meowed in an apologetic tone before snapping its head back to presumably see what the boy was pulling from the depths of the wardrobe.

The man walked inside his house and was greeted by his wife. She sighed and said, “He will not budge. The best we can do now is to invite our neighbours and ensure Hans chose the correct things to take with him.”

“Shall I do the former?”

“That’ll be capital!” said Kristina, kissing him on the cheek.

Though she did not express it, the witch was of the opinion that her husband was far too indulgent with their sons. She also knew that Hans, being the youngest and therefore the most indulged, occasionally abused paternal affections to get what he wanted. Her mind meanwhile beat her heart, and Mrs. Westergaard planned to go through his entire suitcase to see it properly packed.

A flood must have swept through her son’s bedroom right before her ascent up the stairs. “Hans,” she said slowly, “where, pray tell, is the floor?”

“You’ll see it soon, Ma’am,” said Sitron, trying his best to fold clothes with his paws.

“I want to look at all my belongings before I leave them for a year,” answered Hans as he inspected his reflection.

“You will wear black,” said his mother straightforwardly, picking up books from the ground. “Our bloodline is formal and true; you do not descend from wannabe witches who think pink crystals and tattoos grant them powers.”

“Does formality and truthfulness necessarily equate to formal dress?”

“Yes.”

Hans looked down at his pale blue waistcoat. “Does that mean I have to take the black one? It’s threadbare,” he complained. Granted, his words were true: that article of clothing had gone through six brothers before it fell into his hands.

“It does not matter what you wear,” said Kristina, despite the fact that she secretly agreed with him – she was fond of her clothes too. “Your heart and soul are the most important aspects of you. Plus, black will forever be in fashion. It never goes out of style and there is class to a black-and-white palette. Now help me tidy.”

Downstairs, Mr. Westergaard stood over the phone and rung up the neighbours. Having spent his entire life in the village sans for the few years at university, the man was a steady figure in the community. He was present at virtually all weddings and funerals, attended every baptism, was an understanding landlord, and all-around a highly respectable gentleman. His invitations were warmly met, and the villagers excitedly prepared for the special event.

Once all the essential calls were made, Mr. Westergaard sighed and considered his near future. Steady life in the country suited him, and never had he been prouder of its charm than when it won over the love of a pretty witch from the big city. Quietly he hoped the reverse would not occur to his son should he travel somewhere far. It was difficult to reach most cities from their village as there were no train stations nearby and, more selfishly, Erik wished to keep his children close.

“You’ve memorized both books from cover to cover!” heard the man as he approached the blue door of his son’s bedroom. “Leave them and take this instead!”

“Who will buy potions from me in a large town? I bet they have pharmacies on every street!”

“When pharmacies are capable of selling anti-rheumatism elixirs at a fair price then we will be threatened. Till then, if you are in want of occupation you can set up shop and brew what I taught you.”

Mr. Westergaard pushed the door open and saw his wife and child bicker over a leather-bound journal which he instantly recognized. His wife had carefully written down every recipe since she was a maiden, and she copied what she deemed absolutely necessary into notebooks for their sons.

Hans lit up like the morning sun, abandoning his mother to her notebook in favour of running to him. “Father, I’m almost done packing!” he proclaimed, not noticing how Mrs. Westergaard slipped the notebook beneath the nightshirts in the suitcase.

“That’s wonderful,” said Erik warmly. His wife smiled at them as she left them alone. “Have you any idea where you will go? You must write to us as soon as you find a roof over your head.”

“Sitron and I will stay by the seaside!”

“To remind us of home!” added the cat.

“Can we take the radio, too?” asked Hans, his eyes wide as saucers. “Can we? Can we?”

Mr. Westergaard laughed. “I sensed this question was begging to be asked. And my answer is yes!”

“Hurrah!” cheered the wizard and his feline friend. Hans wrapped his arms around his father, face turned upwards in an excited expression. “I’ll take good care of it. I promise.” He sighed happily, then said, “Could you…could you pick me up one last time? Like when I was little?”

Although Mr. Westergaard thought that his son was still little, he kept it to himself – children Hans’ age fancied themselves adults and he was more than willing to humour him. Although Mr. Westergaard was no longer as energetic at forty-nine as he was at nineteen, age had not yet taken his strength. He placed his hands beneath the childish shoulders and lifted the boy up high in the air, spinning his son and laughing alongside him.

When he should have placed the boy on the ground, he instead continued to hold him in his arms and smelled his hair. “I swear,” he said, “just yesterday I saw you take your first steps. Now you’re flying off into the world.” He looked at his son sombrely and added, “Hansel, should things not go according to plan then promise me you will come home.”

“Everything will go according to plan!” protested Hans. “Mother said that we ought to hope I get lucky with my choice of city. I’ll send you a postcard the day after I arrange accommodations for myself.”

Erik pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Write often. In fact, I shall give you a stack of paper so you’ve no excuses to not write to us.”

Hans chuckled and held tightly onto his father. Excitement was his mood since hearing the weather forecast, but he would miss his parents and home. “Can I have the nice cream paper?”

“No.” Erik carefully set him on the floor. “It will crinkle on the journey.”

“This household is _ridiculous_.”

“Do not be cross with me,” he said. “You’ll have as much nice paper as you want when you come home.”

“And to whom will I write?”

“Well, I was hoping you’ll make friends wherever you choose to settle, dearest.”

Hans blushed. “I…Yeah, I—I definitely took that in consideration.” The answer felt disingenuous when he just realized that his mind was filled with adventures for him and Sitron that he completely forgot about making friends in his new town. “Will you give me my birthday money early?” he said, wanting to change the subject. “After all, I won’t be home for my birthday.”

“We’ll come visit you in November,” said Mr. Westergaard as they left the room.

“No advance then?”

“No advance.”

“Fine.”

***

The cool evening air worried Erik.

Hans had been chattering the entire day how the weather ought to be as fine as summer, yet the current breeze disagreed with his aging bones. Glancing at the boy, he saw that Hans – dressed in a handsome black waistcoat – was busy talking to his friends and brothers.

There were thirteen Westergaard boys, and each had his own opinions he wished to impart on the youngest of the batch before his flight. Emil – the ninth son – excitedly spoke of high fashion in grand cities like London and Paris while eleventh born Harald clapped his hands as he commanded his brother to write him of the new patisseries he shall try abroad. Markus, the tenth, warned the young wizard to mind where he flew while Maron – the twelfth born with a passion for the supernatural – spent the day bullying his brother till he promised to inform him of any interesting paranormalities he might encounter.

The older sons laughed as they conversed with the neighbours, who buzzed with excitement – it was not every day a young wizard flew from their humble village. Erik slipped back into the house. His wife strengthened the ties on her broom, and he kissed her on the cheek on his way upstairs to grab a black cardigan.

“Oh!” remarked Kristina upon his return. “I knitted that for Josef when he was fourteen, did I not?”

She reached out to touch it, satisfied that it was in decent condition after so many years. The cardigan was fit for a young wizard: black with crescent moon-shaped buttons.

“I wish he was a homebody,” said he softly.

“I know,” said Kristina, fixing his tie. “The tradition is outdated, though I suppose it will teach him independence. Hans is a clever boy.”

“A _boy_.”

“I left home when I was thirteen, and so did some of our older sons.” She smiled. “And we shall analyse his letters to the tee; should he be hiding any troubles then I’ll fly after him to see that he’s alright.”

That was the benefit of a witchy wife: fast travel.

Husband and wife walked outside as it was time to bid their child goodbye. Hans ran up to his parents, whose anxious eyes were affixed on an unfamiliar broom in his hand. “You aren’t going to use that thing, right?” asked his mother.

“I am!” He grinned. “I made it myself today. Is it not handsome?”

Mrs. Westergaard frowned. “It’s thin, weak, and totally unsuitable for serious travel.” She offered him her larger, sturdier broom. “You will use mine.”

“Mother!” complained Hans, his cheeks flushing. “It’s…old.”

“I prefer the term ‘tried and tested’! This madam survived storms and hails, will not be cowed by the loudest thunders, flies straight, and will keep you safe.”

“I worked very hard on my broom,” muttered Hans. “What do you think, Sitron?”

The calico cat, sitting atop the messenger bag worn by his companion, peered at the parents (particularly the anxious father) and said, “I think we should use Mama’s broom.”

Hans widened his eyes, scowled, and in an annoyed tone said, “Traitor.”

“Why don’t you make a new broom when you land in the city,” said Mr. Westergaard. “It shall be a grand way to mark a new beginning.”

Lips pursed into hard line, the young boy nodded and reluctantly swapped brooms. He received a kiss from each parent, was made to put on the cardigan, and was scooped into a tight hug by his eldest brother.

Hans, after struggling to escape from the embrace, ran to the main road and swung his leg over the broom handle to the cheers of Emil, Markus, Harald and Maron. Wind lifted his red hair as he prepared to fly; Sitron tucked himself inside the cardigan for warmth while Hans hovered over the ground. Then he smacked the broom and shot off into the starlit sky.

And immediately the young wizard crashed into an oak tree, setting off the bells tied to thick branches. Then he crashed again, and once more for good measure. 

Everyone winced at each clash, and Kristina already thought she’d have to bandage whatever bruises her son obtained when they noticed that it had gone still. Looking up, a small dot rose in the distance, serenely soaring in the darkness.

“We won’t hear those bells in a long time,” said a neighbour with a sigh. “That is, unless, Mrs. Westergaard has some news to break to us?”

“Mr. Reenberg!” scolded the witch. So she had delivered thirteen with the first twelve being born almost back-to-back – her childbearing years were over. “We will never hear the end of it if Hansel came back and is greeted by a younger brother. Why, I dare say he’ll simply hop back onto his broom and fly off for a month out of spite!”

The people shook with laughter. They would miss their youngest resident wizard; they hoped that the boy will come back with a bright smile on his sunny countenance and interesting stories upon his tongue in twelvemonths’ time.

Kristina ushered the guests into the house for supper to celebrate the momentous event. She waved her hand to summon the last figure before realizing it was her husband. _Oh, dear,_ she thought.

Moving to his side, the witch rested her head against his arm. “He will make many friends.”

“I’ve no doubts about it.” Erik wrapped an arm around his wife. “We will see him in November, right?”

“Of course, we will!” Kristina sighed. “I’d like to see where and with whom he lives since I’m sure he’ll be filtering information in his letters.” She turned to him. “Let’s go inside. I made pineapple ice and if we don’t hurry then Harald will eat it all.”

With his wife leading him to the dining room, Erik allowed himself one last look at the night sky and quietly hoped the year to come would be kind to his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic - as the name and tags imply - is based on the film "Kiki's Delivery Service!" My dear friend TomoRobo illustrated some scenes that you can find here: https://tomorobo-illust.tumblr.com/post/624531142596526080/personal-hans-week-5-au-hans-delivery
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy and please leave a comment if you do!


	2. The City by the Sea

_“I got a pocketful of poetry  
I’ve got a head full of songs  
A heart with wings  
You couldn’t tie me down to anything  
And that’s enough for me.”_

_Mindy Gledhill._

“To where are we flying?” asked Sitron, poking his head from the cardigan.

“Somewhere picturesque, I hope!”

Wind pushed against the young wizard as he shifted his weight on the broom. While his hands were busy gripping the handle, he asked Sitron to turn on the radio which hung in front of them. The cat gingerly emerged from the cardigan and swiped his dark paw against the knob.

Cheerful, upbeat music filled the night air. Hans was a musical person, and was as fond of hearing good music as he was of playing it. It was a pity that he had to leave his violin behind, but that just meant his brothers will not be allowed to scold him for playing hours on end when his year is done.

Still, a violin was nowhere near to flying – it was the best thing about being a wizard. Everything under the sun paled in comparison to seeing the world from up above; it was as if you were an angel glimpsing at earth from the heavens. Automobiles were ants running beneath him; glowing windows shimmered like stars; ravens and crows flew beside him before swooping low or soaring high like nocturnal Icaruses.

The further he flew from his village, the taller and grander the buildings became. Hans marvelled at a lofty cathedral and its gothic spires, then he yelled when an airplane flew over him, and finally he covered his nose in disgust when they passed by a manufacturing city – which his father considered to be dirty, smoky places – and scowled at the strange factory men beckoning him to land.

“Oh, this city will not do at all,” he murmured, picking up speed.

Customs dictated that though children had a right to pursue whatever trade they liked best, they must be taught their parents’ craft to be able to provide for themselves. One glance at this factory-speckled city impressed on Hans that its people had no need of a potion-brewer. _They’ll sooner call me a charlatan,_ he thought as it faded in the gloom.

Being thirteen, Hans was given a broad education that ought to enable him to wisely pick his trade. Currently, he considering flying as his trade but that option was not exactly applicable in a community where most practitioners were able to do that as well. His brothers practiced a variety of arts and each was tempted to persuade our hero to follow his respective footsteps. Their trades were as followed: herbology and potion-brewing, oneiromancy, transfiguration, curse-breaking, and enchantments.

A paw kneaded his back. Sitron pointed his little hand eastwards, where a witch in a deep violet dress bedecked in accessories flew in the company of a black cat. Curious, Hans approached her and said, “Good evening, Miss.”

“Good evening,” said the girl, assessing him. “Are you new?”

“I am,” admitted Hans. He was still discontent that his flight was postponed by several months. “I left my home today, actually.”

The girl faced forward. “Could you please turn off the music? I like to fly in silence.”

“Oh, of course.” He turned the knob, stopping a jazzy tune midway. “Excuse me,” began Hans, “but may I ask you if it was difficult to adapt to life in a new city?”

“It depends from witch to witch.” The girl opened one eye and smiled complacently. “I’m a fortune-teller, so my year abroad was as successful as can be.”

“You’re a diviner?”

“I’ll be learning geomancy!” said she proudly. “What’s your trade?”

“I—” he was about to reveal that he hadn’t picked anything, then he quickly said, “Potion-brewing.”

“Oh!” The witch nodded approvingly. “That’s a wonderful trade.”

“Thank you!”

“My year is coming to a close,” she said. “I can’t wait to go home and boat of my accomplishments.” She gestured at forward. “Do you see that city over there? That is where I’ve established myself. A small town, but charismatic. Well,” she nodded, “I wish you good luck in your future.”

“Thank you, and farewell!”

“Goodbye!”

Hans and the girl waved each other off. She descended upon a vibrant, glamorous city the likes of which he only saw in foreign films his brother Emil liked. Neon lights decorated the signs of what he thought were night clubs and restaurants and casinos. It was a spectacular city, and one that would earn the disapproval of his old-fashioned parents. _It’s pretty,_ he thought, _yet it is not by the sea. Perhaps I can visit it sometime in the future though!_

“She’s very proud,” commented Sitron with a huff. “Did you notice how stately her cat was? I feel like I belong to a barn in comparison.” He pressed his head against Hans’ stomach. “Why’d you lie to her about your trade?”

“Because the truth is embarrassing, Sitron,” he said. “She’s a _diviner_ while I just fly around and brew anti-rheumatism potions because it makes Mother happy.” Hans turned to his friend. “What should I master, anyway?”

Scarcely had he uttered those words when lightning struck, missing them by the breadth of a finger. Both screamed, and the wizard especially started to curse the weather forecast for betraying him on such a special night.

They lowered their height at once – that was what he was taught to do if caught in heavy rain – and Hans rapidly scanned the horizon for shelter while Sitron, relieved to see that the suitcase had not slipped from the handle, wiggled inside the messenger bag.

A train was parked in between thick trees; Hans sped towards it, ignoring Sitron’s observations of its obvious purpose of carrying cargo instead of people or cats. As he spoke, Hans took note of an open window roof and jumped inside, landing onto soft hay. Closing the latch, he inspected to see if anyone was home; once he saw that they were alone, he firmly decided that they will rest here until the rain subsided.

“Do you think we will be punished for being here?”

“No one can punish us if they do not find us,” said Hans, crawling to a dryer spot and stripped himself of his clothes. “How lucky we are that I insisted to bring a leather suitcase _and_ a messenger bag.”

“Why is the hay swaying?” asked Sitron, not caring for his friend’s smugness.

“Don’t know. It smells wonderful though!” exclaimed Hans, grabbing a heap of it and covering himself with it as if it was a velvet blanket. “Come, let us sleep so we can start tomorrow on the right foot.”

“I miss Mama and Papa,” said Sitron, curling up into a small ball. “The guests have probably gone home by now.”

“Which means Mother is hexing the kitchen to tidy itself,” imagined Hans aloud. “And Father is smoking his pipe on the porch, making sure the dogs do not run after me. I cannot wait to write them a letter detailing this incident! Father will have such a shock (literally) when I tell him how we were nearly struck by lightning.”

Sitron sighed. He had known Hans since he was a kitten and had the joy of seeing him grow from a saucy nine-year-old to a saucier thirteen-year-old. Earlier that day – when Hans took a bath – Papa and Mama beseeched the cat to look after their son; to make him happy and lively should his high expectations meet a disappointing reality.

Snuggling closer to his best friend, the calico cat pressed his face against his with a soft meow. As exciting their new adventure was, it seemed he’d have to advise his friend to not run himself haggard upon encountering the sparkling, shining world outside their village without the all-knowing eye of a parent or older brother keeping him in line.

***

At about eight o’clock the next morning, Hans woke up to the sensation of something _licking_ his bare foot. He jolted awake with a yelp – startling Sitron from his sleep – and laughed as he failed to properly sit up in a pile of swaying hay.

Twisting and turning, the boy dug through the hay and peeked into the lower compartment where he saw a bevy of breakfasting cows. “Oh, I’m sorry!” said Hans to the livestock. “I had no idea we slept in your morning meal.”

After apologizing to the cows, Hans folded up his dried clothes and placed them into the leather suitcase from where he pulled out a fresh pair of trousers, a yellow shirt, and a _blue_ waistcoat. The boy was partial to bright colours, and he was determined to be the picture of a model tenant in his search for a new home. 

Dressing for the day gave the boy an opportunity to really think about his plans. Throughout the winter, his mother and brothers gave him plenty of advice that he had ignored at the time and which now flooded his mind. Mrs. Westergaard was very lucky, having found lodgings within a quarter of an hour after landing in the village square. Meanwhile her oneiromancer and curse-breaking sons just…sought out the most cursed houses in their respective cities and told the landlord they’d unhaunt the house in exchange for a flat.

Tragically, oneiromancy was difficult to master for those who were born without the natural talent and Hans could only break the simplest of curses – he was much better at enchantment.

His mind was riddled with possibilities; however, they vanished like mists in daylight when he pushed open the latch on the roof and saw a shimmering sea. “Sitron!” he exclaimed. “Look at the sea! Does it not remind you of home?”

Sitron raised his head and smiled. “It’s pretty,” he agreed. “And I see a city in the distance!”

The cat was right: there was indeed a city further up the coast! Hans reclined back and wondered whether there was another wizard there. “We already avoided Arendelle City because of that elemental girl,” he said.

“Most witches these days flock to big boy cities like London.”

“True.” Hans smiled. “Well, let’s check it out!”

Bidding the cows goodbye, the pair hopped onto the broom and flew towards the city at a leisurely pace. It was a fine day. The sun beamed like a debutante at her ball, and gentle breezes brought with them their characteristic salty smell that had accompanied the wizard his entire life. Hans marvelled at the sight of terraced houses reaching all the way down to the shore, the dull red-bricked mansions peppering the urban silhouette, and he was most pleased with the tall, handsome, grand, magnificent clock tower.

“It looks exactly like how Father described them to me!”

“Hans,” said Sitron, clutching to the messenger bag and keeping an eye on the suitcase, “this city is bigger than I thought. What if there is already a witch here?”

“What if there isn’t?” countered Hans, heading to the clocktower. “You did say yourself that most witches and wizards go to sprawling metropolises these days and this city is not as big as London I imagine and—look at how many automobiles there are here! And the market is so very big!”

“Maybe Mama was the wisest witch of her generation,” murmured Sitron. “Choosing a village over this urban hub-bub.”

“I bet you’re complaining simply because you were a village cat your whole life,” said Hans with a sneer.

“A witchman!” cried a masculine voice. “I cannot believe my eyes!”

Hans and Sitron turned around and saw an elderly man standing on the balcony of the clocktower. “Good morning, sir!” greeted the former, edging closer to the structure. “Might I inquire if your city already has one of my kind?”

“No,” answered the old man. “It’s been ages since we last had a resident witch or witchman in Corona City.”

“Did you hear that, Sitron?” asked Hans. “It’s decided: we will spend the year in this city! Thank you so much, sir!”

“You’re welcome, child!”

One of the strange things about the modern world was that many people believed that magic was gone or never even existed in the first place. The situation had been exacerbated by the fact that young witches either travelled to the largest, most populous areas they can reach or hid themselves in small villages or the wilderness.

The magical community was aware of this predicament, and so they knew that the best way for novices to establish themselves was to secure a settlement with no competition. While they would have to fight sceptics, who’d deny the existence of the supernatural in the face of lycanthropes or noonwraiths, they would also naturally attract customers curious to see a representative of that mysterious group of people. Divinations and enchantments were eye-catching trades – fantastic for attracting patrons from around the globe.

Hans Westergaard was a promising child, but his interests were scattered and he loved flying better than anything – it’d be a challenge to pick a trade.

Those troubling thoughts were currently the last thing on his mind. He was captivated by the sights, the sounds, the smells, etc., and did not care that he was no gifted curse-breaker that were highly sought after by quarrelsome individuals of every creed.

As the boy took in the marvellous city he’d found by chance, the denizens of said city marvelled at the boy. The old man in the clocktower did not lie when he imparted information to them; it had been decades since the city had last been graced by a witch, therefore the people gasped and gawked at the passing wizard and his feline companion.

“Hans.”

“Yes, Sitron?”

“Everyone is staring.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “Smile. First impressions matter. Remember how Mother presented herself to the entire village when she arrived?”

And by way of proving the importance of first impressions, Hans almost smashed into a bus. Then he flipped upside down and startled more than a few drivers into rough stops. Afterwards, the broom decided it knew best and plunged them into a throng of people.

Hans tightened the grasp on the handle and forced it to ascend, allowing them to hide behind a corner of a building. He lowered onto the ground, gently setting his feet on worn pavement. People stared at him. Anxious and flustered, Hans quickly remembered his mother’s story and politely introduced himself to the staring crowd, who departed the scene as soon as the crossing lights switched colours.

Confusion was him. He blinked at the people, all hurrying somewhere for reasons known only to themselves. Everyone at Knight’s Roost got offended if you hurried for no good reason – you were expected to stop and chat with all the neighbours, even if the conversations lasted mere seconds.

A policeman ran to him from across the street, startling Hans by demanding to know what he was thinking plunging above a busy street and nearly causing an accident. “What makes you think you’re allowed to fly around town in this unruly manner?” demanded the officer.

“Wizard or not, roadside rules must be observed by everyone!” He pulled out a small notepad. “What’s your full name and address?”

“Will you inform my parents?” asked the boy regretfully.

“I’ve no choice,” answered the officer. “You’re underage, thus they are responsible for you and your actions.”

Hans cringed at the prospect of his furious mother when some pedestrian loudly screamed that there was a thief. The policeman snapped his head in attention. Turning his head forwards and backwards, he took a sharp breath as the voice grew more distressed.

“Don’t—don’t you go anywhere! Stay right here until I come back!” he ordered the wizard before dashing into the masses.

Hans did not stay right there. In fact, he took several steps backwards and then ran into the opposite direction. He ran and ran till he reached a quiet neighbourhood where, with a lowered head, he hoped to be the picture of unobtrusiveness.

First day in a city and he already caused damage! Hans flushed red, hurrying his pace to the point that Sitron had a hard time keeping up with him.

“So,” began Sitron, jumping onto his shoulder. “That was a memorable first impression, don’t you think?”

“It was awful,” mumbled the wizard. “Terrible. We’re leaving this city tonight.”

“Aw, you’re over-reacting!” The cat pressed his face against his master’s. “Remember how Grandpapa said that he managed to be evicted twice within two weeks after leaving home?”

“That’s different!” Hans pursed his mouth. “I caused an automobile accident.”

“Not true. The officer said you _nearly_ caused one; two very different matters.”

Just as the two began to debate technicalities, they were interrupted by the obnoxious honk of a bicycle followed by an excited voice. A boy who appeared to be his age – maybe a year or two older – cycled beside them with mischief smeared across his sly countenance. His eyes and hair were the colour of walnuts, and he kept the latter tied into a high ponytail. Bleached jeans, a bright bandana, and a popped collar told Hans everything he needed to know about this boy: he was a hooligan.

“How’d you like that?” he demanded. “I was the one who cried ‘thief’ earlier – to distract that cop for you. How cool was I?” The boy laughed. “And you! Are you a witch? I saw you fly about in the sky! Can I see your broom too? To inspect it?”

They passed a group of boys loitering on the street, one of whom teased this boy for sucking up to a newcomer. He laughed it off, told them to shut up, and slowing his bike he asked Hans, “Will you show me your broom?”

Hans (whose embarrassment grew with each paid attention) turned sharply toward this unknown boy. Although his mood was foul and his stomach empty, he was a gentleman’s son; and gentlemen’s sons were well-mannered creatures.

“Thank you, Mister, for helping me escape that policeman,” he said. “But I did not ask you of this, and you ought to know better than to speak with strangers.”

Then he continued to walk heavens knew where, hands grasping tightly at his suitcase and broom.

The boy – instead of being upset at the rather brusque tone – grinned wider and caught up to the wizard again, saying, “You really are a witch! Just like the old woman down the street!”

For clarity’s sake, it should be noted that witch, wizard, and witchman were NOT interchangeable terms. Hans’ whole soul riled with indignation against this boy for the misuse of the words that was curiously absent when he spoke with the old man of the clocktower. Meanwhile the boy had no idea of the nuances of the magical community. No wonder it struck him odd when this newcomer angrily said, “I will have you know that men cannot be witches. I’m a _wizard_. Now leave me alone!”

With those words uttered he slinked into an alley, startling the boy who had to stop his bike to follow him. He quickly realised that that was not a viable option as he saw that the not-witch witchboy had flown off into the bright blue sky.

He stopped in his tracks, staring at the ever-diminishing silhouette. The beauty of it! The last magic-user to live in this city had left long before this boy was born, so to see his peer travel on what should be the most mundane object in the world stole his breath.

“Oh,” said the boy. “I have _got_ to find him.”

***

Searching for lodgings was, needless to say, more difficult than either Hans or Sitron had expected.

Mr. and Mrs. Westergaard had given their son cash to pay for a room until he had a steady income of his own. What Mr., Mrs., and Master Westergaard had not taken into account was the want of every urban inn for adults and passports; that had not been the case when Mrs. Westergaard was Miss Hammersmed, and she could not be blamed for the wheels of time imposing new practices where it saw fit.

Sandwich on his lap and cat resting beside him, Hans sat on the stone steps leading to a statue of Herz der Sonne – a long-dead king of this fine city. Sitron licked his dark paws, eyeing his friend with some concern. “Won’t you eat?”

“I’ve lost my appetite. You can have it if you want.”

Sitron swallowed, observing their surroundings. “The sun is setting.”

Hans sighed his acknowledgement. Having lived his whole life in a little village where everyone knew everyone, the provincial capital felt…lonely. Knight’s Roost was tender to its denizens and the denizens were in turn warm to each other. It was inconceivable for any villager to sit by their lonesome self without a neighbour cajoling (or, depending on their disposition, ‘harassing’) them into their house for a cup of tea and gossip. Hans just knew that if Mr. Reenberg had seen him with this sad frown then neither of them would be at peace until the former saw the latter with tea, a slice of pear pie, and a smile on his face.

“What do you think Mama is doing right now?” he asked his friend.

Sitron raised his head at the question. “I reckon she’s watering the plants for the evening and checking on the fruit preserves before going into the house proper.”

“What about Papa?” asked Hans. “How is he busying himself?”

“Papa must be in his library, and he will be there surrounded by his books and maps and atlases.” Sitron purred. “Why, I believe he must be poring over his atlases as we speak, wondering where we shall live!”

Hans smiled at the image. The Westergaard Family was comprised of readers; it was natural that their patriarch would hold his tomes near and dear to his heart. It had actually become a domestic joke that Mr. Erik Westergaard without his publications was like a king without his crown and royal sceptre.

“I do hope Papa does not worry himself a headache,” said Hans. “And I certainly hope that Harald does not over-sugar his tea – he forgets that Papa’s tooth is not as sweet.”

“No one has a tooth as sweet as Harald’s.”

“That is true!”

This domestic talk distressed Sitron greatly, especially how his friend switched from polite addresses in favour of more affectionate words. It had been at least three winters since the wizard regularly called his parents ‘Papa’ and ‘Mama’; these days they were reserved for the privacy of the house and moments of tenderness, not idle chats in a park beneath the gloomy gaze of a statue.

Police siren cut through the serene air like a dagger. Sitron rolled his shoulders in preparation of a long walk. Hans wrapped up the uneaten sandwich, placing it in the messenger bag. “Let’s go,” he said in a low voice.

Corona City was both like and unlike the cities the pair had visited in the past. The Westergaards enjoyed travel; however, keeping thirteen sons under control in a foreign city was a Herculean task. Thus, Hans rarely had the chance to explore urban areas by himself.

While Corona City in his opinion as grand as Konigsburg – the closest metropolis to their village – it was blessedly quieter than the latter, making it more suitable to a boy fresh from the countryside.

The duo walked up the hill on neat cobblestones, listening to the clocktower ring as it marked the seventh hour. Hans rested his elbows on the stone railings at the end of the street, watching the sea shimmer in the orange glow of the sunset.

“Would you really like to search for another city?” asked Sitron, curious. “This is a nice place, all things considered.”

Hans kept his silence.

An expecting brown-haired woman in a lavender dress then ran up to them, panting hard and holding a pink pacifier. “Ma’am!” cried the woman as she waved the little thing. “Ma’am, you’ve forgotten your soother! Ma’am!”

Hans directed his attention to whom the woman was calling and saw a mother pushing a pram down the street.

“How terrible!” said the woman, sighing. “Her baby will now cry without any relief.” Then she quickly walked toward a small bakery, opening its door to apologize to the customers as she had a quick errand to run.

“Ma’am?” said Hans, addressing the woman. “Let me bring the pacifier.”

“You?” she asked.

“It’s the madam pushing a pram, right? The one in the pink dress?”

The woman blinked before a smile split her face. “Yes! That’s the one!” She handed over the pacifier to Hans. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure!” said Hans as he dropped his suitcase on the pavement. “Sitron, hop on!”

The woman cocked her head in bewilderment that was swiftly replaced by pure horror when the boy climbed onto the railing and _jumped_ with the ease of a madman. Hands flat against the cold stone, she leaned forward to see what became of the poor boy.

Her shock doubled at the sight of him flying.

Wonder was the first emotion she felt now that she was assured that the boy had not splattered on the cobblestones like a spoiled tomato. She could hardly believe her eyes as she admired the young wizard in action.

A few metres below, Hans delighted at the opportunity to redeem himself for this morning’s unfortunate… incident. The policeman was not likely to forgive him, but at least his own heart would beat easier knowing he did a good deed that day. He landed right in front of the pram and offered the pacifier to the mother; however, the baby started to cry for want of its soother and the wizard obliged.

His suitcase was nowhere to be seen upon his return. “Maybe the woman took it?” suggested Sitron. “She works at that bakery, I think. We have to give this note to her, anyway.”

The bakery bustled with business, and a warm smell of cinnamon and nutmeg greeted the wizard. Customers lined up in an orderly-ish queue as they bought their daily bread. Hans stepped to the side as to not block the door.

“Ah, there you are!” said the woman, standing at the till. She dropped five copper coins into the register and opened the door at the side to escort her final patrons, bidding them well. Hans gingerly gave her the note from the mother and child, and she read aloud, “I received the soother. Thank you very much.”

“I ought to leave now, Ma’am,” said Hans, hand pushing down the door handle. “It’s getting dark.”

“Hold on,” said the woman, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Won’t you come in for a bit? We are just about to have tea and I’d love it if you joined us.”

“I would hate to impose.”

“You will not impose! The work day is done and you’ve done me a great favour.” She graced him with the warmest smile he had received that day. “Come, come!”

The woman clearly refused to budge. Hans glanced at Sitron, who shrugged, before hurrying after the mistress. “My name is Johannes Westergaard,” he said. “But everyone calls me Hans.”

She perked up at the polite tone of voice, amused by the boy’s formal and old-fashioned diction which country gentlemen were inclined to possess. “My name is Arianna,” she said as they walked upstairs. “My husband whom you saw downstairs is called Frederic. My daughter’s name is Rapunzel – she is with her friend right now. Would you like black tea or green?”

“Black, please. With milk,” said Hans, taking a seat at the table. “What should I call you?”

Arianna started at that. “What?”

“Your surname, Ma’am?”

“Ah!” Arianna sized up the young boy, whose big round eyes watched her with an owl’s keenness. “There’s no need for formality, dear. Just call my husband and I by our names; we won’t take offence.”

He pursed his lips into a hard line and shot his cat a questioning look.

Arianna had no experience with sorcerers, and this lad in her kitchen had the bearings of a fine gentleman from the rustic country – the last place she’d guess a wizard would live. His manners, clothes, and accent were older in style though, so she supposed the child hailed from an exceptionally small village that slipped past urbanisation.

Setting two cups of tea and a bowl of milk on the table, Arianna sat across the wizard and winked at that handsome cat of his that was not black. “Thank you,” said the wizard, spooning honey into the liquid.

“You’re welcome,” said Arianna, drinking as well. “Have you found a place yet?”

Hans cast his eyes down and laughed nervously. “Sitron and I might travel elsewhere.”

“Why? Is the town not to your liking?”

“A more appropriate question, I believe, would be whether _we_ are to the town’s liking,” said Hans, petting his cat. “We don’t think this city likes us very much.”

Arianna’s expression gained a more sympathetic character as she listened to the sad child. “The city’s big, and the larger the city the more opinions it’s got. Maybe some residents found you a nuisance, but I liked you as soon as I saw you! And if you’ve nowhere to sleep then I’d be more than happy to house you; we’ve a spare room.”

“Really, Ma’am?!” exclaimed the wizard as he shot up from the chair, frightening his cat by accident.

“Yes, of course,” laughed Arianna. “Also, Hans, I remind you that there is no need for ‘madams’ and ‘sirs’ here.” She stood up to check on the food. “Why don’t we dine together, and then I will show you to your room? I’m afraid it’s rather floury, but you’ll have a wonderful view!”

“Ma’am—Mistress Arianna, thank you so much!” The wizard scooped up his cat into his arms and added, “Sitron, we get to stay!”

The happy scene involved a lot of hugging which the cat wholeheartedly reciprocated. Arianna continued to laugh. She had not anticipated to lodge a young wizard and his feline familiar, but she also had not expected to conceive another child after thirteen years; so, who was she to put a cap on the impossible?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments on the first chapter! I hope the second chapter meets your expectations! If you like it as well, I would very much appreciate a comment! Their ability to brighten my day is immeasurable >w<


	3. Hans’ Delivery Service

_“A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.”_

_Jane Austen._

“Everything,” said Sitron, “is coated with flour.”

“I can see that.”

Mistress Arianna had taken the pair to a flat above the storage house; it seemed some of the storage had made its way up the stairs. The room being situated in the attic meant it had a distinct triangular shape, and the general situation left a lot to be desired. Although Hans was overjoyed by the large window next to the naked mattress – it provided him the loveliest view of the sea.

He placed his suitcase, messenger bag, and broom by a dusty table. This was his home now. Barebone though it was, he was sure that he could infuse homeliness into the atmosphere that would be pleasanter to his senses. In retrospect, Hans was exceedingly glad he was not tempted by any trinkets he’d seen while running around the city.

“How much do you reckon it will cost to install a telephone?” he asked, sitting down on the mattress. It was firm with disuse and flour rose into a white cloud around him that made him cough.

Sitron jumped onto the metal bedframe and balanced himself to be still. “A telephone?”

“We will need it for work.”

“Has Mistress Arianna allowed to stay here for the year, or is this arrangement for a single night?”

“…That’s a good question.” Hans folded his arms. “We will delve into the details tomorrow with Madam. For now, we should focus on cleaning the room.” He smirked and reached out to pet his cat. “With the amount of flour reside here, I bet you will become snow white by morn!”

Sitron crinkled his nose. “I like my little boots just fine,” he said haughtily. Being a calico, Sitron was a bit unusual for a wizard’s familiar – most of his peers had black cats.

Hans laughed and then he grabbed the bucket given to him by Arianna, running outside to the courtyard to fill it. His mother was very fond of cleaning spells and he’d picked up quite a few in his thirteen years. There was one that she always used when he was a very small boy who forgot to take off his shoes after traipsing in the gardens. So, once he was back in his room Hans stuck a mop inside of the bucket and walked back three paces, clapped his hands, and extended them outwards as he commanded the mop to wash the floor.

“Tell me,” said Sitron, “why aren’t you washing the floors the old-fashioned way?”

“I want to optimise! While it washes, I can wipe the cupboards and beat the mattress clean.”

The mop, glowing faintly, hopped out of the bucket and shakily started to wipe the flour off the floor. Hans gasped, excited that the spell worked on the first attempt. His hands glowed the same pale blue hue as the mop, and he was almost afraid to lower them lest something went wrong.

Once he was sure that the mop will behave, Hans directed his attention to the mattress. Heavy-lifting had always been a task for his sturdier brothers; the young wizard lacked faith in his slender arms to properly drag it outside, but Sitron proved himself a worthy familiar by helping with the task as much as he could while avoiding the spinning mop – did it move more erratically now? Regardless, it was no small feat considering his size!

Miles down the coast, Mr. Westergaard sat on a large, plush armchair in the drawing room and sighed. His wife beside him regarded him with an anxious expression for she knew that he was inclined to a melancholic disposition. The question now was whether it was set on by the absence of their baby or because her husband ran out of blue and silver ink to touch up on the river systems on his maps.

“Do you think Hansel found a place to sleep tonight?” he asked.

 _The former it is then,_ thought Mrs. Westergaard as she set her book aside to reach for his hand. “I’m sure he has, my love,” she said. “Hans is clever, and possesses a greater sense of self-preservation than a few of his brothers. Do remember that this is his second night away; he will need time to settle down and make himself comfortable before he can write us a missive.”

A sad smile ghosted over her husband’s countenance. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles, and said, “He has taken a copy of your herbology notes, yes?”

“I would not have permitted his flying without them.” She chuckled. “Hans has the capacity to become a decent brewer if he had the patience for it. Still, I hope he will scrape by with what I taught him until he has a permanent trade.” Kristina tightened her grasp over his hand. “Perhaps he will discover interesting urban plants that do not grow here in the countryside! I’d love it if we could find something that’ll cut that witch Gothel’s pride to the bone.” A smirk. “Maybe even her life.”

Erik bit down a grin. Of all the magical fields, herbology was the most competitive. It had surprised him when he learned of it, but seeing what a busy bee his wife was he quickly accepted it as truth. There was research to be conducted, cross-breeding to arrange, sprouts to monitor, perfect environments to provide each specimen, etc. Kristina had written an extensive paper on the consequences of abusing mirthleaf, yet all interest in her study had been cast aside by the herbological community when ‘that witch Gothel’ boasted of possessing the Sundrop Flower.

“My dear, you should not wish death upon others,” he said, brushing the pad of his thumb against her white hand.

“Gothel is well past her expiration date,” said Kristina sharply.

Erik stifled a laugh, then rising from his arm chair he beckoned his wife to join him on a walk to the village square. “I shall feel much safer with a witch by my side,” he said, all affection.

“Yes, of course,” (sarcasm dripped from the words), “I can imagine the highwaymen tremble with fear and cry for their mothers at the mere thought of a witch who’d spent decades honing her household enchantments.” Kristina wrapped her arm around his. “‘Beware, beware the village of Knight’s Roost! There be a Mrs. Westergaard, witch, who will curse troublemakers into washing her dishes for eternity!’”

“A terrible fate,” he said. “Our sons can attest to that.”

Snickering, Kristina leaned against her husband and the shut the door behind them. The moon, half-shrouded by gloomy clouds, lit the way for them to leisurely stroll down the gravelly path and the cobbled street ribboning to the square. Good humour was their conversation, blooming flowers and quaint painted signs were their world. Husband and wife spoke in hushed tones, perfectly unaware that in a city north of their beloved village a spell had gone wrong, and their youngest son and his cat found themselves battling a mop. 

***

It was a fine crisp morning, one that made Hans smile despite the bruises on his arms. The mop had been a fearsome foe, and Sitron did very little to help beside screaming, “Thirteen years! Thirteen years you’ve been a witch’s son and you cannot restrain a mop!”

He did – eventually – disenchant the wretched thing, and then spent the better half the night cleaning the room the mundane way. The room was fresher, cleaner, and Sitron did not fear for his dark points. Hans had scrubbed the floors, unpacked his suitcase, stored away his belongings, and prayed to the heavens that Mistress Arianna will not be a harsh landlady.

“What if she tells to us to leave?” asked Sitron. He scrunched his nose. “The scent is too strong, my friend.”

“It will fade as we go about the day,” retorted Hans, dabbing lemon oil behind his ears as was custom in his village. “I’ve thinned it with gin before we left home – that may be what you’re smelling. And to answer your question: I rather like Madam Arianna; and she seemed adamant that we stay. How do I look?”

“Perfect!” Sitron jumped to the floor. “To the bakery then? To investigate?”

“To kindly inquire,” he corrected.

Bread was already baking in wide ovens. The warm smells of cinnamon and nutmeg embraced the wizard upon entry, and he bowed in greeting to Mistress Arianna and her husband, who lifted trays of dough so smoothly with a wooden paddle that Sitron was left impressed.

“Good morning,” said Hans, throwing himself to his landlady’s aid by picking up a tray of ready loaves.

“Morning!” she said with a smile. “Have you slept well? There was some ruckus down the street, I think. Hopefully, it did not disturb you too much?”

Hans paused, then said, “No, not at all! Sitron and I were so engrossed in our cleaning that we paid no mind to anything beyond our walls.”

While they carried goods to the shop front, Sitron watched Mr. Frederic simultaneously pick up _two_ trays of dough and spin them before placing them on the work table. This impressed him even more, and the cat quietly awed at the big baker. _Here’s a man who’d fit in well at the village,_ he thought.

“Delivery services?” exclaimed Mistress Arianna down the hall.

“Yes! I’m not very good at anything in particular in magic – save perhaps brewing potions – but I’ve always excelled in flying!” explained Hans, sliding sweet breads into the shelves behind the till. “It is similar to horse-riding actually.”

“I like this idea!” Mistress Arianna placed hands on her hips. “Delivering packages by air will save everyone time! And you’ve already headquarters of a sort here.”

“I can use this place? Really?”

“Of course! Do you have everything you need to get started?”

“There is a want for a telephone,” he said, bringing in another tray. “My mother has one installed at her shop so customers can ring for her.”

“But they are expensive,” said Mistress Arianna disapprovingly. “Don’t waste your money when we have one already that you can use. You won’t have many customers at first since you’re new, which is why I suggest you mind the bakery for me when I can’t.” She gestured at her big belly. “I’m expecting, and my daughter is often out and about; you’d be a great help.”

“Has your daughter returned home?” Hans slowed. “I’ve yet to introduce myself to her. Oh! How much will the rent be, Mistress Arianna?”

“She went to school straight from her friend’s place.” Arms folded, she sighed. “This is what I’m talking about: your presence at the shop front will be much appreciated. And,” she winked, “you will not have to pay rent for the room or the phone if you mind the till for me; breakfasts will be on the house, too.”

The offer cleared away all anxieties that plagued Hans last night, and the young wizard’s countenance lit up like a charming spell. “You’re too kind, Madam! I promise I’ll work very, very hard!”

“Just Arianna, dear.”

Hans ignored that little remark, instead running to fetch another tray to the shop front. Arianna laughed at the enthusiasm of her tenant and lifted a tray of cinnamon rolls, leaving her husband alone with the calico cat. Sitron had grown ever more interested in the baking process, his head peeking from the counter, and he watched Frederic intently; however, when the man winked humorously the cat felt a jolt shoot down his spine, and he lowered himself like a hungry child caught red-handed with a jar of biscuits.

The day at the bakery was busy, busier than Mrs. Westergaard’s ever got. Hans chatted with customers and Mistress Arianna, who showed him how to use the cash register. There was a bakery back in the village, though Hans had never worked there as it was family-owned, and his mother had no use of a cash register. Despite his lack of experience, the wizard was gregarious by nature and soon his instructor noticed how well he interacted with the patrons.

By noon, the flow of patrons had slowed. Seeing as it was the boy’s first time living alone in a big city, Arianna let him have the rest of the day off so he could look around and buy groceries. “Sitron needs cat food,” she said when he resisted, “and you should stock up on basic necessities.”

“Will you be alright?”

“’Course! My husband will be right here should I need help.” She clapped his back. “Go, hurry, before it darkens.”

Hans thanked the woman and called for Sitron. With the latter perched on his shoulder, the young wizard went outside where he promptly ran across the street, barely avoiding a roadside accident for the second consecutive day.

“This is not Knight’s Roost!” scolded Sitron, claws digging into the boy’s shirt out of fright. “You can’t be dashing across a highway expecting to live!”

“That was not a highway!” Hans walked hurriedly down the street, wanting to get away from the scene. “Anyway, I’ve made a list for the shops so we don’t spend needlessly.”

“Oh? Can I have a look at this list?”

Hans nodded, and reached for his pocket when three boys walked towards them. Handsomely dressed in jeans, printed shirts, and bright jackets, the strangers laughed about some joke that escaped him. Seeing them pass him by, Hans slowed his step to better size up his outfit: a butter yellow hand-me-down shirt, trousers his mother had sewn from an old dress, and a waistcoat she had made from fabrics she’d fished out from the attic.

Mr. and Mrs. Westergaard were not penny-pinchers – far from it – but they were more than familiar with the speed with which children grow. Their eldest sons, who no longer threaten their wardrobe by growing tall like stormgrass every summer, possessed outfits befitting gentlemen. Juniors, however, were given hand-me-downs upon hand-me-downs unless it was absolutely imperative for them to receive entirely new clothes.

 _I wish I had something newer,_ thought Hans. _A new waistcoat at least. Although no one my age seems to wear them here._

“Hans?” Sitron lowered his head underneath his friend’s chin, pushing up his lowered head. “The shopping list?”

“Ah! Yes, that!” He snapped out of his wistful yearnings and pulled out a scrap of paper. “I’ve approximated our budget for today while you slept.”

“Why approximate?”

“Prices will be different than they are at Knight’s Roost. Let us hope they are inclined in our favour.”

The prices were not inclined in their favour. They were, in fact, actively set out against them. Having visited several shops in a quest for affordable groceries, the duo purchased finished the day with these purchases in their bags: a map of the city, a frying pan, a jar of honey, cereal, oats, butter, eggs, milk, fruits and vegetables, and mincemeat. The most expensive items were a small rug for his bedside – his brother Klaus rattled about investing in one, saying it will be most useful come winter – and a mug with a calico cat painted on the side.

Mistress Arianna had already given him a cup for personal use, but it was love at first sight for Sitron and he refused to leave the shop without it in their cart. “Don’t you want a mug with _me_ on it?” he demanded. Then he looked so stricken when the wizard took one second too long to answer and cried, “Josef has one with ravens, and Ethan has several with his cats! Hans!”

He made a face, and slowly took the mug off the shelf. “I suppose I’ll be returning the cup to Madam.”

“Because we’ve gotten a better one!” said Sitron, purring like an engine against his face.

It was a struggle to carry two large bags down the street. Sitron tentatively asked him about the budget situation for the prices were much higher than in the village; to this Hans said that they will simply have to live off pancakes for a while.

The friends complained to one another about the outrageous prices when from the corner of his eye Hans saw the most beautiful pair of shoes displayed at the storefront of a boutique. Colonial in style, the shoes were cardinal red with shiny white buckles on top.

“They’re so pretty,” whispered Hans, stretching his neck to admire them whole balancing the groceries.

Sitron jumped down and glanced at the tag. “And expensive.”

“So was your mug.”

“ _Our_ mug.”

Hans rolled his eyes. Then his attention was caught by a dingy, smoky car that saw better days came rolling down the street. Inside of it was a gaggle of laughing adolescents, who one could only assume were revelling in being a public nuisance. Hans told Sitron to climb onto his shoulder – in case they had to make a run for it – and scowled when he spotted yesterday’s aggravating boy. 

“Hey!” cried that boy, pointing at Hans. “Seamus, slow the car, would ya?” With that, the ugly vehicle came to a screeching halt in front of the clothes shop. The boy leaned to the side and waved. “Wizard! Won’t you fly today?” He turned to his friends. “See, I told you he has a cat and everything that follows him everywhere and—wait, where are you going? What about me, Wizard?”

Hans went red as a rose. He had no want or need to be a spectacle. Quite contradictory for a boy whose nature revelled in attention, though one must understand the difference between being heralded as the best dancer in Knight’s Roost and being gawked at on the streets as if he was a freakish circus sideshow.

“Don’t be upset,” said Sitron gently. The speed with which Hans walked forced him to drive his nails deeper into the cloth. “He doesn’t know any better.”

“They were laughing!”

“At him. You must have heard the desperate bravado in his voice when you shot off like a bullet. I bet the boy buzzed their ears off about you.”

“I…” The notion was met with a generous portion of flattery, and an equally great sense of disgust. “I should think my father would call that boy a ‘hooligan’!”

“To be fair,” started Sitron, well familiar with the sensibilities of his family, “Papa calls most city boys ‘hooligans’, unless they’ve family in the country or tick off the boxes on his enigmatic respectability checklist. And even that is not always enough! Do you recall what a lecture he gave us when we went to the shops together last summer?”

“Was it when he saw a boy wear tattered jeans?”

“Yes!” Sitron perked up his ears. “That was all he could speak of on the drive home!”

Hans laughed. He remembered well his father’s repulsion to the new trend in fashion, and how he complained of it to his wife the moment they returned home. “How can I forget his long tirade? ‘Cannot they afford to keep their knees warm?’ is what I believe he said.”

Cheeks rosy from laughter, the friends turned at the corner to enter the courtyard and Hans stopped by the well when he heard the door of the house proper open. Mistress Arianna smiled. “Perfect timing, Hans!” she said. “There is a woman who has come to see you – it’s about a delivery.”

“A delivery!” Hans shared an excited look with Sitron. “We will be there in two ticks, Ma’am!”

His very first patroness was a handsome red-haired woman. In her prim white trench coat and crimson lipstick, she appeared to him like a fashion magazine come to life. She smiled kindly at Hans as he slid into bakery front with a broom in hand and a calico cat perched on his shoulder.

“She’s a regular here, Hans,” said Mistress Arianna, “and she needs to have this delivered to a suburban address.”

“What a charming young man,” said the woman, placing a hand on a bird cage covered by yellow cloth. “I must have this delivered today. It is my nephew’s birthday and…”

As the woman provided details to Hans, Sitron gingerly pounced onto the counter and approached the cage. There was a toy inside: a plush cat that was the very image of himself. “It’s me,” he said softly, cocking his to the side in admiration.

“It is quire far from here,” she said.

“No worries, Miss! I shall fly straight from here; it ought to cut all the unnecessary twists and turns of foot landed travel.”

“How much it will cost?”

“…I haven’t considered that yet,” he answered honestly.

The woman regarded him carefully. A less honourable person would’ve seized the opportunity to skim on paying the full price, but this customer was a neighbour of Arianna’s and had seen the boy run around the area as he tidied his new home. She was also privy to the fearsome mop incident, and knew right away that she liked the newest addition to the neighbourhood. Smiling she dropped into his open palm a hefty sum for money and asked whether it was enough.

Hans stared at the promise of not surviving on pancakes alone for the next fortnight. Then he blinked, taking in the money, and thanked his patroness heartily. He gestured to Sitron to hop onto his shoulder, thanking the woman once again and promising to have the package delivered by evening.

Arianna accompanied him outside, eager to see him fly. She’d never seen a wizard before in her life, so it was with a trembling heart that she observed her tenant while wondering how will he take off the ground. The first and only time she’d seen him in action, he nearly gave her a heart attack by dropping of the ledge.

She watched with a child’s enthusiasm while Hans (thankfully) lifted off the ground by what she assumed were magical means. Her hands shadowed her face as she watched the boy soar, and nearby that aggravating boy saw the shrinking silhouette and pedalled like his life depended upon it till he stood beside the baker.

“God, that’s so cool!” he exclaimed.

“I’d like to touch the clouds too,” sighed Arianna in awe.

“Mrs.!” He turned to her. “Do you know him?”

Arianna started in surprise. “Flynn!” she greeted him warmly. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well, Mrs. But about that boy—” he pointed upwards. “Do you know him? Is he Rapunzel’s friend?”

“Oh, they haven’t met each other yet,” she said. “Rapunzel went to sleep over at Cassandra’s house yesterday, which was when I met Hans. I like him already – he’s such a nice boy.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“With us! Up in the spare room above storage – you know the place.”

Flynn brightened at the news. To think that a real wizard lived in his borough! He’d have to drop by this evening when he returned from wherever he flew, and he was excited to speak with him. Despite the cold reception he’d received earlier, Flynn was determined to befriend this wizard named Hans whether he liked it or not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year's Eve!! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and I look forward to many more in the coming year!


	4. The Artist's Flock

_“Climb ye higher and higher and higher  
Till you’re far away and breathing cleaner air  
Oh, my brother, my brother, my brother  
Who have you become in the wake of all that’s happened here?”_

_The Crane Wives._

Up, up, up they went! The city somehow appeared to be both larger and smaller than when they were on the ground. Hans soared as high as he could, touching the clouds with the tips of his fingers, only stopping at Sitron’s, “I believe we’ve ascended high enough, my friend.”

I’ve no desire to encounter officers,” said the wizard, reaching for the map neatly tucked in his pocket. “Not when we’ve such an important task: our first delivery!”

“Well, the package is to be delivered to a birthday boy.” Sitron pressed his head against Hans’ belly. “Not the angels.”

Stretching his legs outwards in a V-shape, the wizard plummeted several downwards before gathering his legs to smoothen his flight. “Better?” he demanded, smiling at the answering nod. The view was still beautiful at this height. Witches and wizards dubbed it the ‘Witch’s Field’, and Hans thanked whatever toss of genetic dice granted him the ability to fly.

“I like this city!” he proclaimed, grinning.

“We should not get too comfortable,” cautioned his friend. “We’ve a single customer in our books so far, and you cannot stay here unless you practice your witchcraft.”

“We’ve been here for less than a sennight; we will be fine.” He scratched the cat’s head. “And if the worst comes to worst, I can brew potions for sale. Mother taught me elixirs that cool fevers; every toddler’s mama will want it, I’m sure.”

Conversation came easily to them – they spoke of everything with light hearts, unbothered by eavesdroppers. Once their chat took to discussing the various arts of witchcraft, the friends were joined by a flock of wild geese heading in the same direction as them. Hans greeted them with all the politeness owed to divine communicators such as them, and was startled by their sudden squawking.

“Have I said something wrong?”

Sitron stood in attention. “No,” he reassured his friend. “They’re warning us: strong winds incoming. They say they’ll be pushed upwards by it.”

Before Hans could react to the warning, the geese – true to their words – were thrown into a toss by the aforementioned winds. Its strength slammed into Hans as well; the study broom tries its best to them steady – its mistress had ordered it to keep her son safe – but the current was too powerful. The young wizard lost his seating, spun in a circle around the handle which he clutched so tightly that his knuckles went lily-white.

Sitron, whose claws were buried deep in Hans’ back, screamed like a banshee as the wizard pulled himself back onto the broom. Then the latter placed a reassuring hand on his friend, giving him a comforting squeeze. “We’re alive!” he said, panting hard. “We’re alive and safe and—where’s the package?”

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a glint of metal and fluttering fabrics falling to the forest like a shooting star.

They shot off like a bullet. It was Hans’ first day (first!!!) and already things have gone wrong. A moment of happiness burst through the clouds when he caught the package, then the clouds massed stronger than ever as they hurtled into a tangle of sharp, jagged branches.

A furious crow flapped in front of them, cawing and crying. Hans – precariously situated on the tree top – searched for his cat in hopes of a translation. Some wizards spoke to all animals. He was no such wizard. For a moment he considered grabbing the bird to calm it down (or at the very least to stop it from pecking at his eyes), but then he saw a nest with three eggs a hairbreadth away from his elbow.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” At the same time, Sitron clambered up the tree trunk and into his waistcoat. “We’ll leave now! Right this instant, I promise!”

The instant took a bit longer than an instant. In Hans’ defence, it was difficult to leave the tree what with his clothes snagged onto splinters and Sitron running up and down his body. And when they had fulfilled the promise, the mother bird chased them for good measure, hurling insults that made the cat blush with shame.

“It was an accident!” shouted Hans, flailing his hand to keep the sharp beaks from himself. “I don't want your eggs so you can stop accusing me of being a thief, thank you very much!”

The geese did warn us of the wind,” murmured Sitron. “You should’ve reacted quicker.”

“You should’ve translated faster.” He sighed in relief when the crow finally let them be. Above them, the _agreeable_ flock of geese soared high like Icarus. “They’re natural-born flyers; I’m still learning. Mother never let me go on the broom when the wind raged, so no wonder I don’t know how to manage them like my brothers.”

“You need more weight on you,” remarked the cat. “Skinny child that you are, it’s a miracle you haven’t been taken by storms. How will you we find you then? And—Hans! Hans! The toy! It’s vanished!”

“What?!”

The little latch of the bird cage swung in the breeze, and inside lay only a small birthday card. Horror seized them both, and they made a sharp turn back to the forest, braving the screaming crows awaiting them with vengeance. Hans tries his best at pushing past then, even swinging the cage in the air as a makeshift melee weapon once the crows attacked the head of his broom.

Victory favoured the crows. Hans flew from the woods, then watched the black birds descend triumphantly into the thick woods. “Oh, whatever shall we do?” he complained. “They’re a stubborn lot, and vicious.” He patted the broom apologetically.

“Pompous, you mean,” said Sitron. “You are a wizard! They owe you respect as prospective familiars.”

“And put you out of a job?” Hans chuckled. “No, they saw a calico cat and knew that the office was taken.”

“Mama’s familiars are birds though.”

“How are they to know that? And Mama’s familiars are eagles, not crows.” He shook his head. “We’re losing focus!”

Sitron considered their situation, then said, “We must wait till sunset. Once its dark, we can sneak into the forest and retrieve the toy without facing those hooligans.”

“But we don’t have till the sun sets, my dearest.” Hans’ countenance was that of anxiety, which significantly worsened upon pulling out his pocket watch. “I must deliver this within a half hour.”

“Have you any better plans?”

“Well…not really.” Hans sighed, his mind racing with solutions. He could transfigure another object into the shape of the toy, but his transfigurations lasted two hours at most and he’d have to find something to transfigure in the first place. There enchantments and potions which affected the memory, though he was uncomfortable with either solutions. Surely there must be something he could do that did not involve bewitching a whole family till moonrise. And—

Sitron. There was Sitron. Quite like how dawn always succeeded the darkest nights, so did Hans’ spirits rise from the dispirited puddle of doubt in his chest. “Sitron,” he said slowly, “the hour has come to pay for that mug.”

“What…what do you mean by that?”

Hans gestured at the cage. Sitron blanched.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Hans, I love you and—”

“And so you will be the best actor in the world!” He stroked his head pleadingly. “Sitron, _please_. This is our first delivery and I cannot return to the bakery a failure. What will Mama think of me once she learns of this?”

The cat bit his lip. He loved his friend dearly – loved him more than anything in the world – and would give his heart’s blood to make him happy. But…pretending to be a toy for God knew how many hours? Glancing up, Sitron saw pure hope in the boy’s face. Hope along with a willingness to back down should he refuse the plea.

He bowed his head. Then he stepped into the cage, closing the latch behind him. “Please hurry.”

“I will! Oh, thank you so much! Where would I be without you? My Sitron!” he pronounced proudly, flying towards the address. “My dearest, kindest, most obliging Sitron; I’ve chosen so well the day I first met your litter!”

The praise was a balm to the feline soul, especially when they rang the doorbell and a toddler ran out to greet them. Sitron was well acquainted with children – there were plenty of babies in the village – though those little ones knew he was a living cat, not a toy to be held by the tail.

Hans gasped when the boy swung his friend around, then he was chastised by the boy’s mother for the lateness. “I apologize, Ma’am,” he said, fishing for the notebook in his pocket. “Um, could you please sign here?”

With the signature ready and Sitron in the house, he bowed politely to the woman and jumped onto his broom to get his friend out as soon as he could. That was the least he owed him.

***

Sitron was not afraid of dogs.

No sir, he was not afraid! Having grown up in a household with horses, rabbits, ravens, pigeons, sparrows, two excessively proud eagles, and a pack of dogs desensitized him to most creatures on the planet. Never mind that the Westergaard hounds were taught to not harass him for they knew that Hans had the blackest temper when seriously angered, and Sitron’s hurt would definitely trigger it.

Young wizards were interesting creatures. Magic coursed their veins and sometimes fled their bodies in outbursts of emotions. The Westergaard hounds had their fill of it a few months after Sitron’s arrival. No one liked being a toad, even for a few hours; he was sure not even toads liked being toads.

The old dog sleeping in this blasted living room was not privy to this knowledge.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Sitron prayed for Hans’ scavenging to be swift as the wind. The birthday had thankfully lost interest in him, too busy he was playing the with the birds, but that hound agitated him to no end. Who knew what shall happen once it awoke from its slumber? He will sniff the air and learn at once that Sitron was a real cat, not some stupid toy.

They laid serenely in the drawing room, a dog and definitely-not-a-toy cat. Alone. The bot had run off to wash up for the evening. They were alone. It was the perfect chance for a big dog to chew on a small cat. Not for a second did Sitron stop watching the canine fellow, despite the very act filling him with fear.

He trembled. His heart beat like a judge’s mallet as the dog rose in lazy inquisitiveness and approached him. He liked him and Sitron swore his heart would burst right there. Death had come. This was it. No more sunrises, no more of Mama’s marmalades or sniffing Papa’s antique books, no more touching the heavens with Hans. There was not even an opportunity to drink from that amazing mug they’d bought earlier!

Life flashed before Sitron. Then, realizing a warm presence behind him, he carefully opened his eyes and saw that he was protectively held by the dog. _I’m alive,_ he thought in awe. _I’m alive._

***

Sunlight barely penetrated through the thick leaves of the trees, leaving the forest bottom as gloomy as he’d expected. Hans ran like a madman, dropping onto his knees whenever he thought he saw the toy hiding in the shrubbery. He was half-tempted to cast a summoning spell; but distant avian cries forced him to reconsider. If his destiny was indeed to be pecked to death by a murder of crows then he’d rather prefer to postpone it till after he had freed dear Sitron.

Wandering in circles eventually revealed to him a grim cabin in a clearing. He narrows his eyes at the unwonted edifice and saw perched behind the dark windows the toy. Hans gasped, legs stumbling to reach the gift and he released a breath he had no idea he held. 

With poor Sitron weighing heavily on his mind, Hans rushed to the door of the house and cried if anyone was there. No response. He made bold to peek inside and saw that it was filled with paints, brushes, canvases, and anatomical books alongside a bouquet of miscellaneous items such individuals were inclined to possess. For example, nine cups of tea – a quarter of them cold and stale – littered the little table by the couch. _This must be an artist’s abode,_ he thought. But where was this artist?

“Is anyone home?” repeated Hans louder. “Hello?”

“Up here!” said another voice. “I’m busy; you’ll have to come here.”

‘Here’ the wizard realised was the rooftop. It seemed sturdy enough, though its dampness worried him. Hans climbed it carefully lest he falls, which he nearly did when upon reaching the top he was greeted by that rude crow-mother. Yes, he had crashed into her tree. That was on him. But he had apologized! It was not like the eggs had been cracked, nor had he ever expressed a desire to steal them.

“What do you want?”

Hans lifted his attention from the angry bird to a young man sitting higher up the roof. Crows hopped around him, and it seemed he was sketching them. The fellow was tall. That much was obvious even as he sat with a slouch that’d be the envy of gargoyles. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in black. Though he was not what most folks would consider handsome, Hans instantly believed him to have a noble air to him that elevated his stern appearance. Most striking of all was a black patch which covered his left eye.

“Hey,” said the artist. “Are you just going to gawk?”

Hans blinked and frowned. “I’m not gawking,” he said, indignant. Then he remembered himself (and Sitron) and stifled the insulted feelings. “There is a plush cat on your windowsill downstairs, sir. I lost it earlier and need it back. Urgently.”

“I found it in the woods.”

“That would be because I dropped it. May I please have it back?”

“Hold on,” said the young man. “I’ve a great angle here.”

The young artist was called Murphy Stabbington. He’d lived in the woods for two years now, and had very little company besides the local wildlife. His darling crows had caused quite a ruckus that morn; calming them down took a good long while, not to mention how he waited for them to come model for him on the rooftop. They were a friendly bunch, the crows. Charming as toddlers and angrier than hags, they were as fond of Murphy as they were of sunflower seeds and cawed loudly around him, demanding to be drawn next.

Hans, who’d never been terribly apt with birds, slid down the ladder and twiddled his thumbs in anticipation. It was strange. First, he had not expected to find a human soul in the woods. Second, why was this man in the woods? The city to him seemed like a better environment for a creative soul. Although it’d only been a few days since he settled in Corona City, the young wizard liked it exceedingly. During the day it was bright and cheery, at night it glittered as brightly as any village sky. _Artists would find it a fitting home, I think._

While he contemplated, said artist had finished his sketched and closed the notepad shut. Murphy praised the birds for their patience and climbed down the ladder, where he started at the sight of the boy. Perhaps if he had looked at him earlier his reaction would’ve been more mundane, but one must forgive this young man. After all, forests do not typically attract prim boys. Murphy certainly cannot recall having any visitors who weren’t rough-and-tumble sort of lads. People who the Westergaards would call hooligans.

By all estimations, Hans was a very pretty boy. His wind-blown hair was a true auburn, and the rouge against his ivory skin gave him a healthy appearance. The manner in which he held himself was gentlemanly, complimenting the older style of clothes he wore that gave him a comfortable, cosy air of the old country. It was all very new to an urbanite-turned-hermit artist such as Murphy. Hans glanced at him with those big green eyes of his, fingers intertwined, and for a moment he was a picture come to life.

“Sir,” he said, “the toy please? My cat is being held hostage in its place and I need it to rescue him.”

Well. That was one way to start an acquaintanceship. Murphy blinked and gave him a nod. “Should’ve said so in the first place.” He grabbed the plushie and gave it to the boy. “Here.”

“Thank you—Ah! It’s ripped!”

The little plushie’s head was halfway torn at the seams, almost as if the executioner’s axe was too dull for a clean beheading. Hans held it in his hand, inspecting the damage, and Murphy peered at it closer. “That’d be the crows’ doing,” said he softly. “They’ve been kicking up a fuss about it the whole morn.”

“What am I going to do?” wondered Hans aloud, anxiety lacing his voice. “I would not have minded if this belonged to me, but it doesn’t! I cannot deliver damaged goods.”

Artists generally were not inclined to keep their spaces tidy, and Murphy had escaped outside scrutiny by the virtue of his lifestyle. However, being in the presence of a clean, tidy, handsome boy amplified the little voice in the back of his head that begged for the floors to be mopped.

“Hey,” he said to the worried wizard. “What if I sew it up for you?”

Hans glanced at him. “Really?” He twisted his mouth to the side. “What’s the catch?”

Murphy smiled. The boy was clever.

“It’s nothing bad,” he said. “Come in. Let me get the needle an’ thread.”

***

Scrubbing the floors was a task for maids and, as the evening revealed, young wizards in want of sewing services. Hans rolled up his trousers above the knee and sleeves to the elbows as he went about the chore. Though his mother was fond of casting cleaning spells to save herself the trouble, she insisted on teaching her sons how to do these tasks by hand; and Hans was not in the mood to fight another mop.

Murphy sat on the porch. The supplies from the house were all moved to the front and there he sewed up the plushie. Hans quickly realised that this fellow was silent by nature. More than a quarter of an hour had passed before the artist inquired after him:

“Are you new to the city?”

“I am,” said Hans, wetting the bristles of the brush. “I live by myself with my cat.”

“What’s your age?”

“Thirteen.”

“Alone since you’re thirteen?” Murphy leaned in from the window. “You’re one of us then.”

Hans wiped the sweat off his brow. “Who, pray tell, is ‘us’?”

“Starving artists, raving poets,” he paused, “magical delivery boys.”

Hans smirked. Now that was a comparison! “Can I ask you a question?” he asked, eager to forget the hardness of the floor against his knees with jolly chats.

“Hm?”

“What’re you doing in the forest? I’ve a brother who paints and he says metropolises are a goldmine of inspiration.”

“That’s cause he’s a village boy,” said Murphy, pulling the needle high in the air. “Cities ’re new to him.”

“And you?”

“Bred and born in alleyways.”

The conversation died away for a while. As the orange sun set, the cool winds and the pale shadow of the moon swept through the sky and chilled Hans’ bare wet hands. He breathed onto them. 

Murphy meanwhile was uncomfortably aware of the quiet. It was odd. Silence never had the power to discomfort him, yet now he wondered whether he should talk to the boy or not. He was busy scrubbing the floors of the cottage. Perhaps he ought to set the kettle. The chill was bad enough for him, and he was wholly dry.

“So,” he began again, wishing he had his brother’s fluency, “how do like it? The city, I mean.”

“It’s beautiful!” said Hans with cheer. “I’ve dreamt of living in a city with a grand clocktower since I was small, and the seaside reminds me of home. My village is leagues down the shore. Although,” his voice lowered a bit, and he started to scrub more aggressively, “there is a boy that does not sit with me well.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know his name,” added Hans quickly. “Properly acquainted we are not, but that does not stop him from badgering me. He’s fascinated by my broom, I think; his eyes kept straying to it in our few interactions.”

As the wizard continued to describe this bothersome boy, Murphy scrunched his nose as he connected the attributes to a very specific person. Hermit though he was, he had a brother in the city who pinned an ad searching for a dormmate to cut rent costs. They should not have been surprised at the kind of people responded.

“Say,” he said when Hans paused, “what does this boy look like?”

The wizard sat back on his haunches. “He’s a smidge taller than me,” he said. “His hair is brown and he keeps it tied up in a ponytail; his eyes are a lighter shade of brown. Each time I saw him, he wore a bandana around his neck.”

“…Did you,” Murphy took a deep breath, “did you ever see him hanging around a fellow who looks like me?”

The admittedly strange inquiry received a wide-eyed stare. Hans set the brush to the side and rose from the floor, stretching his limbs. “You must give me a moment, sir, for I’ve seen many faces this week.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’,” said Murphy. “I’m only a few years older than you.”

“I think I did see someone like you, sir,” said Hans, choosing to ignore the remark. “He was driving a car from which that boy yelled at me.”

Murphy nodded. “I know who you’re talking about.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. The boy’s name is Flynn Rider.”

“And your doppler?”

“That would be my brother Seamus,” said Murphy. “He uh, he shares a little flat with Rider.”

Hans stared at him blankly. “But that boy can’t be much older than I am. Why is he alone?”

“Well, why’re you alone?”

“I told you that I’m a wizard, sir,” said he crossly. “It’s tradition for us to live by ourselves for a year when we turn thirteen. After twelvemonths I shall be expected home by my parents.”

The genuine irritation in the young voice startled Murphy. A thought then passed through the artist’s mind: he liked this strange little wizard, all the pride and archaisms included. He apologized for the offence and waved the toy. “Stitched it up,” he said kindly.

Whatever shadow dissented upon the boy’s pale face was blown away. Hans flashed a wide smile, then like a gloomy storm he cast his gaze down at the wet floor. “I…I can cast a spell on the brush to finish the job,” he said, “but I cannot guarantee that it will not turn against you.”

Murphy was taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“The deal! You fixed the doll and I in turn must complete the washing.”

“Don’t be silly.” Murphy jumped inside the house via the window and grabbed Hans by the shoulder before the boy could bewitch the bucket or whatever it was that he intended to do. “Your poor cat must be dying to stretch its—”

“His.”

“—His legs and you’ve already cleaned more than half.” He placed the toy inside the smaller, paler hand. “Go help him. And if you’re so keen on repaying me then come back here again.”

“To finish washing the floors?”

“No!” Murphy stifled a laugh. “I’d like to draw you.”

Hans stared at him. “You want to draw me?”

“I do.”

Vanity bloomed within the boy like a daisy at dawn. “I’ll come!” said he enthusiastically. Although his parents have commissioned portraits of their sons, never in his life had Hans been asked to model for an artist. His brother did not count!

Murphy clapped his back. “Good. Now, go fetch the cat.”

“Thank you again for stitching up the toy!” Hans quickly bowed in respect, then seized the broom and darted into the night sky.

Leaning against the threshold of his home, Murphy whistled into the chill air and smacked the palms of his hands. _Better sketch him while it’s fresh in the mind,_ he thought and stepped into the cabin.

A hundred metres up in the sky, Hans urged the broom to make haste lest poor Sitron be tormented any more than necessary. It was a quick flight to reach the house; the wizard made sure to land far enough to not alert the celebrating family inside the house. There was a grey automobile parked at the front and the wizard crouched behind it as he tried to come up with a way to free his friend.

However, all the mental agony was in vain as the door was soon opened by the birthday boy. Hans felt his hackles up, but then the boy rushed off into the glowing drawing room. A most lethargic dog slowly emerged from the house with Sitron firmly held in its mouth. It gently released him, and the cat dashed toward his best friend. “Oh, thank heavens you’ve finally come,” he exclaimed in relief.

Hans held him tightly, scratching affectionately behind his ear. “I’m so sorry for taking this long.”

“Sir Hound protected me while you were gone,” said the cat, pointing with his dark little paw.

Hans lifted his head to see his friend’s guardian. The dog was _old_. Experience told him that at that age most hounds sleep, eat, and go for the briskest of walks. He hoped they were not a nuisance.

Sitron perched on his shoulder and interpreted the unspoken language of animals to his friend “He says to give him the toy. He’ll bring it to his family.”

As if to confirm, the dog solidly tapped the ground with his tail.

Hans approached the elder – being thirteen himself, it was very likely that the dog was indeed his senior in human as well as physical years – and bowed to him. Then he extended forward the plush toy with both hands, which the dog gripped in his mouth before _slowly_ walking back home and closing the door with his hind legs.

“How are you feeling?” asked Hans.

“I’m hungry,” said the cat, yawning.

“I am as well.” Hans swung a leg over the handle. “What shall we have for supper?”

Sitron twitched an ear as they ascended. “I want a charlotte cake.”

“I can make us pancakes.”

“Can we have bacon, too?”

“Sure!”

Hans was in exceptionally high spirits. Of course, there were multiple mishaps to the day such as being branded a thief by the crows and losing the package and forcing his cat to pretend to be a toy until he found it; but, overall, he considered today to be a success.

On top of that, he formed a new acquaintance in the form of Murphy Stabbington. What a name! What a man! Quiet though he was, the wizard found himself partial to the artist. And the giddy joy of being asked to model hadn’t vanished yet. Hans wondered whether he could request him to perhaps elevate his clothing. He told this idea to his friend, who innocently asked if Mr. Stabbington was proper.

“Proper?”

“You know.” Sitron flailed his paw as the words escaped him. “Remember when Papa took us to the big art museum in Konigsburg? There were pictures of naked people everywhere.”

“Those were Greek gods, Sitron,” said Hans, not liking the direction this conversation was heading.

“Naked Greek gods!” The cat raised his large eyes upward to the wizard. “Those painters needed models from which to gather reference.”

Hans grew red as a rose when he caught onto the hint. “Sitron!” he scolded. “Don’t be daft! I’m confident that Murphy’s as proper as any man of Knight’s Roost!”

“I’d be glad to meet him,” said the cat. “Were the crows polite to you?”

Seeing a gloom manifest around his friend answered the inquiry better than actual words could. Sitron sighed, shook his head, and switched to merrier topics like the guests at the birthday party. He had an ample time to observe them seeing that he could not blink or breathe too much, and earnest interest on Hans’ part fuelled his own enthusiasm as he shared the experience with apt exaggerations here and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hans/Murphy shipper in me jumped out sksksksksksksk


	5. Flower, Gleam and Glow

_“Light, so low upon earth,  
You send a flash to the sun.  
Here is the golden close of love,  
All my wooing is done._

_Oh, all the woods and the meadows,  
Woods, where we hid from the wet,  
Stiles where we stayed to be kind,  
Meadows in which we met!_

_Light, so low in the vale  
You flash and lighten afar,  
For this is the golden morning of love,  
And you are his morning star.”_

_Tennyson._

Neither Hans nor Sitron had expected to be assaulted by that boy – Flynn Rider apparently – upon their return home. No sooner had the former set his foot on the grass than this Flynn sprang out from the bakery door with an impish grin on his face. More startling yet was a girl standing beside him. Green-eyed like himself, her fair skin was offset by the purple-pink dress falling to her knees and she graced him with an expression of kind curiosity.  
  
Hans started at the sight of her bare feet. Was she walking around the bakery without shoes?

Though her feet were nothing compared to her hair. If Mr. Westergaard believed ripped jeans to be the height of hooliganism, the proper country gentlemen would need to sit after seeing her head. ‘Bizarre’ was one adjective to describe it: half her hair was the gold of the richest kings, and the other was brown.

“Shall we hover around the roof till they leave?” whispered Sitron, staring warily at the children.

“I think if we do that then they will never leave,” murmured the wizard.

“Ah, Hans!” Madam Arianna climbed up the steps, hand pressed firmly against her round belly. “I see you’ve met my daughter!”

The magical pair instantly transformed into a gentleman and cat who knew their manners and bowed to the girl. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Hans, smiling as he recalled every rule of etiquette. “My name is Johannes Westergaard, though everyone calls me Hans.”

A blush crept up the girl’s neck. Hans wondered what could have caused that, not entertaining the possibility that the countryside ways of bowing and formal language were the stuff of dreams to urban girls. “I’m Rapunzel,” she said brightly. “What’s your cat’s name?”

“Sitron!” And the cat purred happily that he was paid his due.

Arianna asked, “How was your first delivery?”

“Exhilarating!” Hans laughed at the exasperated look his cat shot him, and scratched the top of his head. “I hope my long absence did not inconvenience you, Ma’am.”

“Ma’am!” Flynn Rider threw his head back in good humour, though Hans’ own died quicker than wind, and flung an arm over the latter’s shoulders. “Man, you’re funny!”

“What’s so funny about manners?”

Overwhelmed by the noise, Sitron licked his friend on the cheek and excused himself to their home. He pounced gracefully to the ground and with quick, small steps ran up the stairs. The dark room was a blessing to his frayed nerves; after a too long day of being an actor worthy of Hamlet’s soliloquies, the cat felt he deserved a nice long nap followed perhaps by a bowl of warm milk.

Hans watched his cat retire, but before he could join him the young miss grabbed his arm and pulled him into the house. Miss Rapunzel insisted he dine with them, and frankly everything happened too suddenly for him to process. Within a minute he was awkwardly seated between Rapunzel and Flynn inside a comfortable kitchen. The wallpapers were yellow and coral; wooden utensils hung above the stove; glass jars filled with sugar, honey, cinnamon, and nutmeg lined the windowsill; a white table tablecloth and beige pillows softened the dining area.

The master of the house – that stern baker who had won Sitron’s admiration – sat opposite Hans. At his feet prowled a sleek white cat that slinked out into the corridor upon feeling the wizard’s stare. Madam Arianna placed a bowl of water by the door for it, and then she served the family with beef stew.

Supping with the family (and Flynn Rider) arose mixed emotions in the wizard. Madam Arianna and her husband had already agreed to house and provide him with breakfast; to have supper with them felt almost intrusive. _But_ , thought Hans, _it’d be ruder still to reject their invitation._ So, he quietly brought the spoon to his mouth and took a first sip of the stew. It awoke a hunger in him, and soon he fell like a dog on the tender meat and buttered bread.

His hunger appeared mollified, Rapunzel set aside her bread roll to ask her guest, “Where are you from?”

“My family lives south of here,” said Hans primly, “in a village called Knight’s Roost. We’re members of the local gentry.”

“Which means?” Flynn could not stop picking out the boy’s accent. If he could copy it then every fancy shop would tolerate his presence better.

“Oh, we own enough land to support ourselves with its income,” explained Hans. “Some of the folks in Knight’s Roost pay my father rent to use it for living or farming. As for ourselves, we reside in a big house on a hill at the south-western end of the village.”

“That doesn’t sound very wizard-y,” complained Flynn, and Rapunzel’s expression agreed.

“Did you expect wizards to live in ivory towers?” asked Mr. Frederic. The man was yet to form a solid opinion on this boy that his dear wife had welcomed with open arms. When he had observed the child tending to the counter earlier, he had to admit that it seemed the boy gave himself airs. Though he must admit that having a landowner of a father explained the confidence with which he bore himself with customers quadruple his age.

That confidence and pride presented itself in the roll of the eyes and a stifled sigh. “My family would not fit in a tower,” said Hans matter-of-factly. “Ancient bachelor wizards or equally old unwed sorceresses inhabit them, not witches who mothered thirteen sons. We’d drive Mother insane, I bet, had we lived in a tower. And Father would not like it – he’d complain about his knees oftener.”

A stillness swept through the room. A tense serenity. Meanwhile Mr. Frederic’s hand had frozen mid-air and his wife stopped pouring tea. Even Rapunzel and Flynn, whose adventures around the city hardened them to most surprises, stared funnily at their guest.

Hans was perfectly oblivious to their awkwardness. Instead, he said, “Madam, I hope you do not think me abusing your kindness, but could you reserve a portion of the food for Sitron? He has gone napping and I’m sure that he will be hungry as a lion when he awakes.”

“Oh,” Arianna fluttered her eyelids, “definitely. We wouldn’t want your poor kitty hungry.”

“ _Thirteen_?” said Flynn at last, expressing the question on everyone’s minds. “There are thirteen of you?”

“You say that as if that is too many children,” remarked Hans with a raised brow. “It really is not so unusual at Knight’s Roost. The field labourers have big families as well. Granted, they need the extra pair of hands to help work the lands. My father said the trend carried over to us landowners.”

“What shocks me more is that your poor mother delivered all of you,” said Arianna, only now remembering the tea. “Bringing Rapunzel to the world was a Herculean labour if you ask me, and to think your mother did it thirteen times over!”

Hans laughed. “She complains of it often! However, my mother told me she’d brew herself potions to help with the morning sickness and her own mother and all the village women would aid in the labours.”

“Speaking of her, I believe you’ve mentioned that you inherited your magic from her?”

“I did, Madam! My mother hails from a long line of witches and wizards, with a few witchmen appearing on the tree. She herself specialises in herbology and potion-brewing.” Hans sat up straighter, prouder. It was an unconscious movement borne from the great love he held towards his mama. “Should you ever have need of an elixir, feel free to ask me to brew some for you. My mother gave me a copy of her recipe book so I ought to be able to prepare a potion or two.”

“Herbology you say?” Mr. Frederic’s blue gaze shifted from the curious boy to his daughter and then to his wife. It was a subconscious hint on his part that perhaps this witch’s son could explain the mystery surrounding their little girl.

Arianna, who like so many wives picked up on the minute actions of their men, smiled kindly. She poured her tenant another mug of tea and inquired, “Hans, darling, would you like to know why Rapunzel has such unique hair?”

The wizard (whose cheeks filled out with mouthfuls of bread) glanced at the girl. She grinned at him, the dark side of her hair moving gently with the breeze coming in from the open window. His own face was blank, inscrutable. “Um,” he swallowed the food and glimpsed at the girl again, “I…truth be told, Madam, I assumed it was an urban thing. My mother jokes that Knight’s Roost is half a century behind metropolises so…” he trailed off, recalling how his father rallied against ripped jeans.

Arianna laughed. “Oh, goodness, your mother is harsh!” she exclaimed as she clasped her husband’s hand, squeezing it affectionately. “The honest truth is that during my first pregnancy with Rapunzel, I was terribly ill and no prescription could ease the pain. Fred here,” she gestured at her man, “bought a musty old botanical book at a second-hand shop to cheer me up. We flipped through it, found a page talking about a yellow flower that would cure me of my dreadful nausea, and then we searched for it all over the city. Eventually we found it— where did we find it again, love?”

“At the park by the geology museum.”

“That’s right! The geology museum.” Arianna leaned against him, a fond smile on her lips. “We plucked it from the earth and infused hot water with it; drinking the water healed me of every complaint!” The mistress of the house at this point gazed warmly at her firstborn. “A month later our Rapunzel came into this world with a crop of thick blonde hair.

“Lovely though it was, I fancied it’d be easier on her to have it short – little babies ought to have short hair anyway – so I grabbed my scissors to cut it. But when I did, the remaining hair darkened so quickly as if it died that I have not dared since.”

Hans listened to this story with growing agitation. Having a herbologist mother meant hours spent in the greenhouse listening to this and that about flora. When that herbologist mother was also proud and educated and a fellow of the Magical Herbological Society, a son had no choice but to be privy to gossip the likes of which his mother told him.

It must be frankly acknowledged that the boy had little to no interest in any plant-based field of study. Herbology, botany, horticulture, or agriculture never impressed young Johannes Westergaard quite as much as a simple rose bush, yet the story told by his landlady reminded him of a plant owned by a witch – a very specific witch – detested by his mama and every other herbologist. The former bore a grudge towards her for stealing the limelight off her own research, and the latter simply because this witch refused to loan out her flower for study.

With a trembling heart, he inquired after the appearance of the flower.

“It was a lily,” answered Mr. Frederic. His wife was too stunned. This was the first time she’s seen the normally cheerful boy disturbed. “The leaves were golden, and in the inner part was a deep lilac. It glowed in the dark too. We’ve never seen any flower do that so it had to be the one described in the book.”

“Are you alright?” asked Flynn, who had shared a baffled look with Rapunzel. “Is this flower special?”

“Well, you see,” Hans’ mind raced with the implications of this revelation. “My mother—”

His eyes fell onto Rapunzel’s beautiful golden hair. It was bound in a thick, complex braid which shimmered prettily beneath the artificial lights. Suddenly, a lesson floated to the front of his mind and he rose from the chair with an important air. “May I be excused for just a moment?” he asked. “I shall be back in two ticks.”

Before he even received an answer, the wizard shot off like a bullet down the stairs. The company heard the side door screech open and slam shut as he ran into the courtyard. Arianna regained her composure the quickest and excitedly patted her husband’s shoulder. “Thirteen sons!” she said in awe. “What a mother he has got! I want to meet her. Rapunzel, dear, have you ever read about Knight’s Roost in your books?”

Rapunzel shook her head. “My geography teacher said there are a lot of little villages on the southern coast. Apparently, the railway system misses them entirely. Most are practically cut off from Corona City!”

“That explains his accent,” said Flynn, resting his cheek against the palm of his hand. “And his clothes. I mean, who wears a waistcoat every day?

“He keeps calling you ‘Madam’,” added Frederic, addressing his wife. “I’ve heard him call me ‘Sir’.”

“You know how these old-fashioned families are,” she said. “I bet he bows to his parents first thing in the morning! Rapunzel, Flynn, I want you to be kind friends to Hans. He’s all alone in this big city and he is not allowed to go home for a year. While he does have his little cat for company, local human friends will do him good.”

“Of course, Mom!”

Rapunzel sympathised with this boy – she never had many friends herself. Her parents had home-schooled her till it was discovered that her mother was in the family way once more. The past few months were the busiest of her life what with starting school and befriending Cassandra in her class and meeting Flynn; this wizard boy was the perfect addition to her already wild life! And together they will combat loneliness bravely and courageously!

Her bright mind wasted not a single second in conjuring up plans for herself and Hans; beside her Flynn did the same, though his agenda was more mischievous with a spice of nefarious malevolence.

It was that flying broom that captivated his fancy. The heavens, after all, were the final frontier. Sure, there were hot air balloons and gliders and skyships developing every day; but unless he decided to break the law earlier than he anticipated then he could not sneak onto one at the moment. _That broom,_ he thought giddily, _will let me touch the clouds way before the engineers!_

Their schemes were cut short, however, by a loud thump downstairs which was succeeded by louder scrambling. Hans appeared at the doorway, cheeks flushed from exertion, a cat atop his head, and a neat leather-bound notebook in his arms.

“You alright?” asked Frederic.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Hans, setting his cat on a chair. “I owe you an explanation: you see, your fine story reminded me of a flower heralded as a legend among herbologists, healers, and potion-brewers. With your permission, I should like to either confirm or dispel my suspicions.”

He thrusted his book at the master of the house. The open pages showed a carefully illustrated flower exactly as Mr. Frederic remembered it: delicate, ethereal, fantastical. However, he was a baker and a sober one at that. “I assure you,” he said, “that there is not a drop of magical blood in us.”

“Sir,” said Hans, slowly and surely with a touch of that country condescension only audible to fellow gentlemen, though it slightly rubbed Frederic the wrong way. “Sir, I do not mean to be rude, but you cannot say you do not have a ‘drop of magical blood’ when your daughter has hair like that.”

Frederic stared at him flatly. “Very well,” he said.

“How will you test my hair?” said Rapunzel, who echoed the boy’s excitement and already let it fall loose.

Hans smiled. The girl was nice and kind whose eyes gleamed with intelligence. Clever children were apt at singling out their fellows, and Hans unknowingly decided that she would be a very good friend; already he found himself partial towards her. “First,” he said, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, “I need my cat to scratch me.”

“Why’s that?” asked Flynn.

“I don’t have any wounds currently and for the experiment to work I need one,” he explained as he coaxed an incredibly reluctant Sitron to harm him. 

“Does it have to be on you specifically?”

“No. Any ordinary wound will do.”

“Then I’m the guy you want.” Flynn sprung up from the chair and extended an open hand, revealing a nasty cut darkened by ugly scabs. “Here.”

Those who knew Flynn stared at him completely unimpressed. The boy was often caught up in brawls and regularly had policemen chasing after him for general mischief and for being a public nuisance. Frederic, Arianna, and Rapunzel were aware of this and did not even bat an eye at the new injury; the mistress automatically went and grabbed a plaster from the medical cupboard.

Hans, on the other hand, was ignorant to this fact and winced. Perhaps this was what his father disliked about urban hooligans. Country boys fought as often (if not oftener) than their urban counterparts, yet the injuries they sustained were bruises and bloodied fists; Flynn’s hand meanwhile had been slashed open.

“Thank you,” said the wizard, unsure of whether to be grateful or concerned or disgusted. He continued staring at as he reached for a strip of Rapunzel’s pretty hair, tying it around the injury. “While I cannot promise any results, _should_ they occur then will you all promise not to break into a panic?”

That unnerved the parents, even Arianna who was interested in this investigation. “Will it hurt her?”

“Hurt _her_?” Despite himself, Hans flashed a wide grin. “No, of course not! If anything, Rapunzel is guaranteed safety against most health complaints. Now, is everyone ready?” The room nodded. “Alright, then I shall begin!” And so, with this final warning, the wizard took a deep breath and sang a tune which for so long had been considered to be both soothing and utterly ineffectual:

_“Flower, gleam and glow,  
Let your power shine.  
Make the clock reverse  
Bring back what once was mine._

_Heal what has been hurt;  
Change the Fate’s design.  
Save what has been lost,  
Bring back what once was mine,  
What once was mine.”_

Gold was her head. It shimmered at the roots before, like a lazy river, streaming down the length of her hair with a marvellous sheen. Rapunzel had fixed her gaze onto the hand, so only her parents noticed that the glow was confined to the yellow hair – the short, walnut tresses were as mundane as their own. As for the guinea pig known as Flynn Rider, he was disturbed by the excited smile on the calico cat’s too-expressive face. Sitron had stopped licking his paws clean, choosing instead to focus more intently on the show of magic that Hans had the honour of revealing to himself and the family first hand (no pun intended).

Upon reaching the wound, the bandaged locks burned bright as a start and Hans’ fingers into the flesh from anxiety. His eyes were shut for he wanted to give himself completely to the song. Once he sung the final word, the golden hair dimmed to their workaday yellow and the wizard slowly, cautiously opened his eyes and hurriedly unwrapped the hand.

No cut.

There was no cut.

It worked! It had worked!

Hans twisted Flynn’s arm awkwardly as he presented the result to the most important individual in the room: Sitron, who meowed happily at the outcome. Neither knew what Mrs. Westergaard will make of the knowledge that the Sundrop Flower – the rarest and most sought-after bloom in the world – had been used to…infuse kettle water. Mrs. Westergaard might seize her husband’s attention for hours upon end to speak her mind on the matter, or she may hop on her broom and disappear into the eternal sky for the night. Whatever she might do, Hans and Sitron will certainly have plenty to discuss in their first letter home!

“Mom!” cried out Rapunzel. “The cut is gone!” She sprang to her feet and pushed herself close to Hans. “How did—How did that happen? What did you do?”

“Please,” laughed the wizard, hugging his purring little cat, “the magic was all yours, Miss Rapunzel! Madam and Sir here had found a Sundrop Flower and—”

“Which is?” demanded Flynn.

“Don’t interrupt me!” snapped Hans. “As I was _saying_ , Madam and Sir found a Sundrop Flower, which according to legends were drops of sunlight manifested on earth. Mother’s notebook says here it has the ability to heal any worldly sickness or injury – fatal wounds included.” Gossipy witches pierced through the haze of his delight. “There is a witch called Gothel,” he added in remembrance, “that owns a specimen. She uses it to achieve immortality, or so I have heard and been told. Truly, I am surprised that this flower grew by—was it the geology museum you said?”

His question flew over the heads of Arianna and her husband. What was a geology museum to the power of healing every known ailment, every wound? And what was that about immortality?

Flynn, sharing their exact thoughts, clapped the boy back with just enough strength to hurt him a bit. “It’s rewind time, my good sir,” he said forcefully. “What the hell did you mean by immortality?”

“Flynn!” complained Rapunzel. “Language!”

“Rapunzel!” cried Flynn, shocked. “We learn that you’re immortal and the number one concern on your mind is my language?”

Hans raised his hands in alarm. “She is not immortal,” said he firmly.

“You said the witch is!”

“I mislike the inflection you used on the word.”

“Whatever. Could you please—” he flailed his hands— “elaborate?”

Sighing, the wizard sat back down on his seat. With Sitron purring like a motorbike on his lap, Hans started to scratch his ear while spinning his tale:

“Gothel uses her Sundrop Flower to push back death. Natural death is the outcome of the inevitable wearing and tearing of the body as its natural functions corrode over time. The Flower by the virtue of its powers reverses the process. The lyrics of the incantation are not there for beauty’s sake. The Sundrop Flower literally reverses the clock and brings back what once belonged to whomever is absorbing its powers.”

“It changes the Fate’s design,” murmured Rapunzel as she plaited her hair.

Hans smiled in affirmation, very much enjoying the authority of being the only expert on magic in the area. In truth he was far too young for his words to hold any weight, especially when his mother or brothers possessed actual specialisations of skill. Although one could argue that this being a most unique case, Hans had as much experience as his dear mother concerning Rapunzel’s condition.

“My mother,” he said, proud, “believes that if Gothel ever stopped using the Flower – or if it was destroyed – then the magic will break and all the age which she had delayed will come after her harshly and swiftly like a sword.”

“But what of Rapunzel?” asked Frederic.

“I think Miss Rapunzel became the new manifestation of the Sundrop Flower,” said Hans calmly. “Expecting women are forbidden from consuming some elixirs lest it adversely affects their unborn baby. Foetuses are like sponges in that they soak up just about everything their mothers eat and drink.”

“So, Rapunzel absorbed the flower’s properties whilst in the womb,” finished Arianna.

“That’s my theory, Mistress.” Hans took a sip of tea and frowned. It had gone cold. “Madam, may I have another mug of tea?”

“Oh, of course, dear.”

Arianna nodded mutely, moving to re-heat the water. Her husband stood from his chair and joined her by the counter, muttering something under his breath.

“Does that mean I can heal _anything_?” was Rapunzel’s question.

“You should. There is a reason why the Sundrop Flower is considered to be the Holy Grail among my fellow witches and wizards.”

The floodgates were promptly opened. Rapunzel and an increasingly-baffled Flynn ambushed Hans with inquiries of every nature about the Sundrop Flower. Their questions came in rapid-fire succession that would have shamed rifles till eventually the wizard, barely keeping up with their speed, buckled down under their enthusiasm and agreed to let them come into his room after supper to ensure he wrote down their queries in an express delivery to Mrs. Kristina Westergaard, witch, residing at the house on Fifteen Lionheart Lane, Knight’s Roost. 


	6. Dancing in the Dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my very good friend Tomorobo-Illust!! I hope this merry update cheers her mood and that she has a lovely birthday (despite the global situation in which we are currently trapped)💝💕💖

_“Tell me that the night is long,  
Tell me that the moon is glowing.  
Fill my glass, I’ll sing a song  
And will start the music flowing._

_Never mind the rising light;  
There’s no sign of day or dawning.  
In my heart, it’s still the night  
And we’ll stay here till the morning.”_

_Celtic Woman._

Bright and pleasant and blue was the sky above Knight’s Roost. Summer arrived in the village as it always did: bursts of merriment and laughter. Spring had borne and nurtured the livestock, the sturdy leafy trees, the meadows full of flowers, all the creatures of the forest and every new bird soaring across the heavens. They were grateful for it, they were, and though bidding it farewell was a bitter thing summer prepared bathe Knight’s Roost in sunlit revelry.

Mr. Westergaard was fond of this time of year. His elder sons returned home from far-flung cities while his younger were all smiles as they paraded round the village green with dogs at their heels. Farmers were less tense as they had done their dues and rested for harvesting season. Besides collecting rent and checking on his tenants, the gentleman little do and so sat on the porch, enjoying a tall glass of lemonade and reading the weekly gazette.

Daily gazettes the likes of which plagued cities with bold headlines were non-existent in Knight’s Roost. This was a quiet village, thank you very much! Serene was their way of life, and what metropolises considered to be footnotes (that is if it was even printed onto paper) would be breaking news in this corner of the world.

Thus, it ought to be no surprise to the reader that Mr. Westergaard perked up light a pointer at the sight of the postman in his scarlet uniform. He placed aside the gazette and rose to meet the worker, exceedingly pleased that among the regular correspondence, rent cheques, and council commitments there was a letter from his lastborn.

Bidding the postman good day, Mr. Westergaard restrained himself from opening the long-awaited missive right there and instead went to find his wife. It did not take him long. Mrs. Westergaard was in the habit of admiring the seaside on hot days – the cool salty air cleared her head after days at the greenhouse or at home.

Briefly popping into the kitchen to grab a bottle of iced tea, the gentleman walked across his property till he reached the side gate that gave led straight to seaside hill. He trod through the bending stalks of stormgrass, climbed up the rolling hills, and soon heard how the sea lapped at the shore.

Try as Mother Nature might to be quick-witted and magnificent, to Erik none of her wonders compared to his wife.

Sunlight fell on Kristina’s wavy chestnut hair, which for once tumbled past her shoulders in loose curls. Flowers red, yellow and blue surrounded her, brushing her fingers just as the wind swept across the meadows. A bright gleam then caught his attention. The eagles – his wife’s familiars – held in their beaks two silver pins. They flapped wildly around their mistress, and one dropped the pin in a bold attempt to steal the bright cornflower ribbon tying Erik’s hair.

“Leave it,” said its mistress, stern.

The eagle halted a finger’s breadth away from the desired object and, with disappointment somehow clearly evident on its avian face, flew round the man to settle beside his mistress. Erik followed suit, offering her the beverage and missive. “Hans has written!” he informed happily.

“So, he has!” said his wife, twisting open the cap. “Have you read it yet?”

Erik frowned. “Without you?”

Kristina smiled. “My apologies, Mr. Westergaard,” she said with good humour. “Well, let us see what our son says and, more importantly, where he resides. Will you read it aloud for me?”

“It shall be my pleasure,” said the gentleman, who for the past week had bothered his wife by openly (and constantly) wondering when the letter will come and whether Hans remembered to write and why the postal office was not what it used to be in his boyhood. Therefore, it was with genuine delight that Erik Westergaard broke the seal and orated the following:

_City of Corona  
Sixteenth of May, 19—_

_My dearest parents,_

_I hope you have been doing well since my leaving Knight’s Roost! As you’ve no doubt pieced together by the return address on the envelope, Sitron and I have settled in the City of Corona just up the coast from our home. I am glad to live just far enough for totally new experiences yet close enough to feel your presence in the ocean breezes and southern winds – I pray you feel likewise!_

_The city is so very fine! It rises from the seaside; from the broom it appears to be (and later I discovered it to be true) tiered, or perhaps the correct word would be terraced. There is everything I expected of a city of this scale: a grand clocktower, automobiles zooming along the streets, busy marketplaces, fancy people, and fancier shops lining the high streets. One such business that we recently spotted has on its window display the most beautiful pair of shoes that I had ever seen in my life! They are a cardinal red with silver-white buckles gleaming on top…and they are far too expensive for my current living. So, Mother, you mustn’t burden yourself with saying that I will outgrow them for they are beyond me. _

_Truth be told, everything seems to be so egregiously overpriced in the city. What costs a shilling back home is at least double the price here; Sitron and I are managing the budget meticulously, though it is a challenge when he starts craving charlotte cakes or when the aforementioned shoes appear in my dreams. But we are trying!_

_With such costs of living, it was by sheer good fortune that we found a home. Accommodations I have ben given by a most obliging woman: Madam Arianna. She and her husband run a bakery together, and have kindly provided me with a room above the storage shed._

_Flour covered every square inch of our room. Sitron and I spent the whole of the first night cleaning and washing and tidying (I say ‘Sitron and I’ when in reality he sat and watched me; should you ask him though then he will spin a completely different tale for you). We suffered an incident, if you will, but overall, the room was gleaming by the time we were finished._

_Madam Arianna and Mr. Frederic, her husband, are so very obliging! The former does not expect me to pay rent so long as I help around the bakery by minding the shopfront, stock the shelves, and arrange the goods on the display. You might understandably wonder what use do a husband and wife have of a young wizard, and the truth is that I have yet to crack the code myself. Although a part of it is related to Madam’s current condition – she is in the family way._

_This is not her first time expecting a child, but their firstborn daughter is my age so I will leave it to you to imagine their stress regarding a thirteen-year break. Their daughter – Miss Rapunzel – helps around the bakery as well. However, she enrolled to a proper school this year and is unable to mind the till at daytime. The family does not wish to tempt fate and the second babe with strenuous activity. So, I fill in the gap left by Miss Rapunzel._

_My landlady and hers are a respectable lot, therefore it is my greatest wish that Mother will not be terribly upset when I inform her that Miss Rapunzel is a curious creature. I will digress this matter later down the page, but you and Father must remember that what Madam Arianna and her husband had done they did out of anxious ignorance._

_As for my profession – and again I hope Mama will be neither upset nor disappointed – I have set up shop as a deliverer. Flying shortens the legs of a journey; already I’ve had customers pay me well for express deliveries. Indeed, my very first customer (who coincidentally is also my neighbour) have me what could be argued as a too-large sum of money for what I expected to be a simple job. Those could be my rural sensibilities talking, however, as a single trip to get groceries was a stressful affair in its own right._

_I thanked the good woman profusely – her generosity covered the cost of a fancy mug Sitron demanded we buy._

_You might have noticed that I said that I had expected the job to be simple, yet the reality was far more exciting! As the weather was fine, I flew so high up that Sitron reminded me that the package was to be delivered to mortals, not angels._

_We flew for a while with a flock of wild geese. Two issues arose:_

  * _I am not gifted in understanding the speech of birds._
  * _Sitron was not a quick enough translator._



_The geese warned us of an oncoming gust of strong wind, but we took too long deciphering their message that I could not avoid it when it hit us. Before Father has a stroke, however, I am pleased to report that neither geese nor us have gained any injuries! Though the package could not boast the same as it had slipped from the handle of the broom. By the time I caught in mid-air, the contents had fallen._

_I should at this point clarify that the package was an iron bird cage with a plush calico cat inside addressed to a boy living on the green belt. The plushie had dropped into the local woods like a shooting star and, since the delivery really was urgent, Sitron valiantly volunteered to play the part of the doll whilst I searched for the true gift._

_Within the gloom of the forest that is much thicker and denser in foliage than ours at home, I stumbled upon a wooden cabin situated in a small clearing. There the plush doll stood at the windowsill. The door was flung wide open, so I took the liberty of snooping around bit. A riot of paints and brushes greeted me. In short, this was what my brother Henrik’s room would have looked like had Mother ever stopped pressuring him into cleanliness._

_Unsurprisingly, this was the home of an artist. A most curious, most interesting artist if I may be so bold to say! His name is Murphy Stabbington; he is about three-four years my senior; and he has been living alone the woods for quite a few years now. Not only does he alone in the woods like some kind of an artistic anchorite, but he is a great friend to birds (of which I know Mother will approve)._

_When I first saw him, he sat atop the roof sketching a throng of crows. They did not like me much for reasons irrelevant, though their affection for Murphy Stabbington was obvious. For all of his aloofness, he seems to be a decent fellow and has cordially invited me to come see him when convenient. How wonderful is that? It is just as Father had said: I am making so many good friends in the city!_

_Murphy gave me the plush and promptly I flew to retrieve dear, dear Sitron. I still flush at the memory of that blunder. Regardless, succeeding jobs have gone smoother and let us pray they remain that way._

_We returned to the bakery late that day. Tired as dogs and hungrier still, we landed in the courtyard with every expectation of eating pancakes and bananas for supper (I promise we bought normal produce at the supermarket – I just lacked the desire to cook properly). Whatever our wants were, they were unmade upon our arrival as we were ambushed by the aforementioned Miss Rapunzel and her friend, Flynn Rider._

_I must be very careful in the following passage for it concerns my want of your good opinion of them. What I failed to mention in my earlier description of Miss Rapunzel is that she has dual-coloured hair. Half of her head is as golden as your wedding bands, the other is the earthy brown colour she had inherited from her parents. At my confusion, Madam Arianna told me how ill she was throughout her first pregnancy. No doctor could relieve her of pain. To somehow amuse his poorly wife, Mr. Frederic bought an old book concerning plants and one of the pages was naturally dedicated to the Sundrop Flower._

_Bafflingly, this pair of bakers somehow managed to find the Sundrop Flower by the local geological museum. Mr. Frederic plucked and boiled it in hot water which he later gave his wife to drink. When the day of labour had come, Madam Arianna was delivered of a healthy baby girl whose head gleamed golden (rather striking since old family pictures peppered around the house show generations upon generations of brunettes)._

_Madam said that as she believed long hair to be cumbersome for infants, she cut half of it off with one decisive swoop. The result of this strategic haircut was that the side trimmed immediately darkened at once and never grew in length again. Subsequently, this incident frightened Madam so much that hadn’t dared to repeat this experiment, leaving Miss Rapunzel with hair which simultaneously fell beyond her back and slight above her shoulders._

_As we all know that the unborn absorb whatever their mamas consume; with this in mind as well as those rumours surrounding Miss Gothel, I conducted an experiment of my own with the golden tresses. Flynn Rider had a large cut on his hand – he is the sort of boy, I think, who gets caught up in brawls. I wrapped the hair around it like a bandage and sung the infamous incantation._

_Mother, Father, it is my duty as well as my pleasure to inform you that it was a success! The wound on Flynn Rider’s hand healed so perfectly that one could never tell that there was once a nasty cut slashed across the skin. I believe Miss Rapunzel to be the human form of the Sundrop Flower as she soaked up its powers in the womb. More importantly, does this not mean that Miss Gothel is incorrect in her claims that there can only be one Sundrop Flower at a time on earth?_

_Miss Rapunzel and Flynn Rider have endless questions that I cannot answer without the aid of our library. I hope Mother will do me the service of answering their inquiries (which I’ve included on a separate sheet)! Personally, I think Madam and Sir are greatly concerned for their daughter as they’ve little understanding of magic. I’ve told them that you might come visit me on my birthday and, should you do, they may ask your advice on what to expect from Miss Rapunzel._

_Now I will conclude for this time as I am running out of space and my hand begins to cramp. Please give my warmest regards to my older brothers, my dear friends, and our excellent neighbours. To you, Mama and Papa, I send my tenderest affections and kindest wishes! Believe me always to be your devoted and most faithful son,_

_Hans W._

_P.S. Could you **please** send me a postcard signed by all of my brothers? I keep telling Miss Rapunzel and Flynn Rider that there really are thirteen of us but they refuse to believe me. I am growing rather tired of playing defendant at court. _

Kristina became stiller the further her husband read. Her disbelief was profound. So profound, in fact, that it unnerved the eagles on her arm and lap enough to compel them to fly away. Erik meanwhile was so very relieved that his son was housed by a married couple with a child for there were no other people he’d trust with being landlord to his son than fellow parents.

He was happily ignorant to his wife’s rapidly worsening disposition.

“How capital it is that Hansel already has friends to keep him company!” exclaimed that good man. “Miss Rapunzel sounds like a lovely young girl, though I do wish he had elaborated more on the character of this Flynn Rider boy. He cannot be too bad a child seeing that the bakers like him, but additional information never hurts. And an artist in the forest!” Erik laughed. “At least it is not an anchorite he has met! Well, this Mr. Stabbington proved himself cordial with the invitation.” He paused. “Although how could he not? Everyone decent ought to like our son, and company must be wanting in the forest.”

“Darling, what do you think Gothel’s Flower and that urban specimen have in common?” asked his wife.

It must be said to the reader that Mrs. Kristina Westergaard had heard and listened to her husband’s musings. She also knew best of his capacity to talk endlessly of their children. Thus, her decision to cut to the chase was one borne of years of experience as his lady wife.

“They are both of the sun, are they not?” suggested Erik. “It is fitting that another such flower would bloom in the City of Corona – their town heraldry is a radiant sun on a field of purple.”

“Yes, well—” Kristina sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of her sharp nose. “Oh, I hope Hans and Rapunzel do not abuse this discovery. I shall write to our son that they must not repeat the incantation till November when I can properly examine the girl.”

“They are thirteen years of age, Krissie. They will exploit this power.”

“I am allowed to hope,” she said. “And I have to write out this command regardless if they will listen to it, if only for propriety’s sake _and_ should something ill happen then I can say that I told them so.”

Erik chuckled and kissed her on the cheek.

Husband and wife sat on the hillside, watching the azure sea lap at the shores. Each occupied their minds with different yet related thoughts: the gentleman wondered how his son got on in the city and whether or not this Mr. Frederic had family in the country with which he might be acquainted; the lady weighed the pros and cons of her son becoming a delivery boy. A diviner Hans was not. Neither was he particularly apt at curse-breaking or transfiguration. Delivering packages might not be the best way to spend a year abroad honing his crafts compared to potion-brewing, however, she had to admit that it was arguably the most lucrative trade. People paid extra for express post and here her child soared with an angel’s grace carrying their missives in half the time of an earthly postman.

“I should like to prepare a package for Hans,” said Kristina firmly.

Erik said with a start, “May I ask whence comes this resolve?”

She shrugged. “Hans praises Madam Arianna for lodging him on extremely generous conditions. I do not question her goodness, her respectability. But I cannot help a sense of distrust towards her for being so quick to accept him.”

“My mother lodged you within a quarter of an hour.”

“A lady of a manor and a baker are not comparable, Erik,” she said. “Mrs. Westergaard was very good to me, and I want Hans to be treated well by his landlady. And I do not want those bakers to think us neglectful parents for sending our thirteen-year-old on his merry way into a big city. Their elder daughter must have been home-schooled – odd for a city child – and that tells me plenty about them.”

“Hans will explain our customs to them,” assured Erik, hand on her waist. “There is no mother finer than you, Krissie, save perhaps my own. Though we must keep in mind that mine had two sons and you thirteen.”

“Well,” his wife slapped on a mischievous expression, “you saw to that yourself, unsatiable man that you are!”

Erik grinned and buried his face in the crook of her neck, beard tickling her skin. With laughter reminiscent of bells, Kristina flung her arms around him and pushed them so that they rolled down the hill. They landed at the base of the meadow with a soft thud against the earth, smiling brightly at each other.

Kristina positioned herself so that she rested on her husband’s arm, hand on his chest. Wild birds flew around them, flowers grew beneath them. She sighed and looked up at her husband. His green eyes always stood out to her in contrast of his flaming hair. Although the energy of youth gradually left them as they aged comfortably into the afternoon years of their lives, there were bursts of rather improper spontaneity similar to those of their courtship days.

They lay there for a while. The sky before them went from bright blue to soft shades of purple and pink and orange. We will not divulge the private conversations between husband and wife, though our readers will surely have no difficulty imagining the happiness present on that meadow.

Soon the crescent shadow of the moon marked the hour, and with utmost reluctance did Erik and Kristina rise from their soft bed of stormgrass. Arm-in-arm they made their slow journey back to their home with two eagles flying around them as if they wished to protect them from harm.

“Oh, I do miss them, I do,” said Kristina upon seeing a stray calico cat. Her head rested against his shoulder. “Hans flies in the wind and rain. It is a question of when, not if, he will catch a cold – my preserves will help him. Cherry jams, pickled tomatoes, pickled garlic will do nicely.”

“Truth be told,” said Erik softly, “I’m more concerned by those red shoes he mentioned.”

“Good heavens, do not even speak of them,” she said, exasperated and chuckling. “There are so many lovely things sold in metropolises; God willing Hans will not be enamoured by everything that shines and glitters. I had nothing and nobody to tempt me when I first landed in Knight’s Roost; thus, my coin purse thickened like a factory master.”

“There was _nobody_ to tempt you?” inquired Erik archly.

“Nobody but _you_ , my dear,” rectified Kristina with a smirk, and her husband smiled.

***

The exhausting adventures surrounding his first delivery were, thankfully, singular. Succeeding weeks saw him deliver letters, small packages, birthday parcels, and on one very dull morning a mother rang him up and said she’d pay him double the standard rate of the largest package for him to transport her son to school as the bus was dreadfully late and there was an exam at stake.

Hans – when not clutching the shirts of ten-year-old boys or teenage love letters – forsook his broom in favour of exploring the city on foot with Rapunzel (who had insisted that he drop her title). The pair had quickly bonded over a shared love of books. One sunny Saturday, she had buzzed her parents’ ears off till they released Hans from counter duties. She then grasped his hand, pulled him out onto the street, and ran with him all the way to the largest second-hand book shop in the city.

 _Mother was right in making me leave my books at home,_ he thought as he and Rapunzel ate ice with a backpack full of new treasures. The May sun beat down on them fiercely, and Hans lamented that he was no water elemental.

“What’s the difference between you and an elemental?” asked Rapunzel, brows lifted in curiosity. “And how are you different from your mother? You say she’s a witch, though you are a wizard.”

“Elementals bear an unusually strong connection to various forces of the natural world. There is a girl in Arendelle City who can bend ice to her will, or so I heard,” said Hans, licking his lemon ice pop. “She’s a curious case in that her parents have no magic in them, and these powers tend to be hereditary. My uncle’s wife comes from a long line of water and wind elementals; half my cousins walk on water and the other half jump from heights, saving themselves by summoning strong winds to soften their landing.

“As for my mother, she is a witch because she is a woman with magic in her blood. Most witches are born with supernatural abilities, yet it is not unheard-of women who gained or awakened powers later in life. Mother can perform most spells and, similar to an elemental, she can manipulate natural forces of the world. The greatest difference is that each draws their power from fundamentally different sources. Elementals derive their power _from_ their specific natural phenomenon while a witch like my mother would be required to tap into her own strength to mimic them.”

Rapunzel ate up the information eagerly. The arcane was not part of the school program. Sure, Flynn taught her loads which was not included but his lessons were mostly about brawls and thievery, not magic and spells and secret societies.

“Wizards are essentially male witches,” continued Hans. “It really is a tricky term as the immediate association is that of an old, slouched, eccentric man in a stone tower hidden in bogs or mountains. _Generally speaking,_ wizards are the best educated members of the community. So much so that quite a few witches dub themselves wizardesses to distinguish themselves at research conferences.” He smiled. “After all, you cannot compare a thirteen-year-old girl barely knowing her bestiary with a seventy-year-old woman whose life was dedicated to discovering the medical uses of dragon’s blood.”

“What is a witchman then?”

“Witchmen are warriors. They use their gifts to slay wild beasts and do work that would kill a regular witch or wizard.” Hans threw the wooden stick into a rubbish bin and wiped his mouth with a hemstitched handkerchief. “I’ve a brother whose entire career is based on breaking curses and killing monsters – everyone calls him a witchman.”

“Is that so! Then what is…” and so their conversation went.

Their days were spent in smart conversations, their nights in board games and book clubs with Flynn being an unwilling participant. Hans triumphed where Rapunzel had failed: he convinced that boy to sit down and read a book that isn’t one of those cheap pulp fictions.

How did he achieve this? It was very simple! Unlike Rapunzel, whose sweet temper prevented her from expressing the true extent of her disappointment, Hans openly and viciously began to bully his peer till the latter buckled down and finally read all of Miss Austen’s _Persuasion_ within a fortnight.

Thus, a hot and humid evening by the seaside was dedicated solely to the two quizzing the third musketeer on the book to determine whether or not he actually truly read it or if he stole some poor child’s literature schoolbook and went through its notes.

Flynn licked crumbs off his fingers with the patronizing, confident air of a rogue. “Guys, I can read. Can we stop?”

“We are not asking after your literacy,” said Hans, wiping his own hands with a handkerchief. “We want to know if you use it.”

“But most importantly is that you enjoyed it!” Rapunzel offered them more cinnamon cakes and popped one into her own mouth. “We’ve compiled a list of book recommendations for you!”

“Oh my god,” murmured Flynn.

As he prepared to make a run for it, their little book club was interrupted by a weeping toddler wandering aimlessly down the street. Wearing a floral yellow dress lovingly sewn by a mother’s hand, the little girl was neat and tidy save for skinned knees. Fat tears rolled down her round cheeks, her face red from crying.

Hans, contrary to what people may assume from his upbringing, was not yet comfortable with dealing with younger children. Oftener than not, _he_ was the baby. And his elder brothers were usually around to deal with the weeping tots on their street.

Rapunzel fared no better as she had absolutely no experience in this aspect. Her parents were quick to dote on her and, by no fault of their own, raised her with the expectations that she would be their sole offspring and cared not for her aptitude with possible siblings.

Subsequently it fell onto Flynn Rider to calm the child and search for its parents. He lifted her into his skinny arms, wiped her tears with his crimson bandana, and ordered Hans to fly above the promenade to see if he could find any anxious parents.

Dignity demanded the wizard argue with the boy on this point as it was unseemly in his opinion for someone like Flynn Rider to tell him what to do, lost children or not.

His mention of magic and the gust of wind blowing strands of golden hair into her mouth lit a lightbulb in Rapunzel’s head. She rose with eager pride from the bench to relieve her friend of the child. “Would you like to see magic?” she asked.

The little girl blinked, her large blue eyes still watery with unshed tears, and slowly nodded.

Rapunzel smiled and tugged her hair free of bands. Then she bandaged the scraped knees, softly singing the song which Hans had taught her. As described in the preceding chapter, her hair glowed magnificently and burned the brightest around the wounds. The little girl clutched at the bodice of Rapunzel’s dress. She did not yell as an adult would do – children accepted wonders easily and wholeheartedly – but warily kept her hands to herself. That, of course, ended once she saw her knees healed. Within seconds Rapunzel gained an otherworldly aura to the little girl and Hans for the first time felt scornful towards the freeness with which his friend carried herself.

No sooner had the child been healed than its parents emerged from the crowd, thanks and relief jumping from their tongues. The child babbled happily to its parents about Rapunzel, and it would’ve disclosed everything its young mind made of the supernatural hair had Hans not made bold and discreetly cast a drowsy spell upon the girl.

With the child safe with its parents and the three companions jauntily walking up the hill to the bakery, Flynn playfully clapped Hans’ back. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet since the incident.”

“I’m just thinking,” muttered the wizard.

“About what?” asked Rapunzel.

Hans sighed, then stepped in front of them in as decisive as a boy of thirteen could be. He pointed at the young girl with a judgmental finger and proclaimed, “You mustn’t be too generous with your powers!”

Rapunzel started. “Why not?”

“You are undervaluing it!” Hans, arms on his hips, was the very image of his mother arguing with alien customers who’ve no desire to pay the full price. “We are lucky that sunlight diminished the glow of your hair as it would have attracted the attention of scoundrels and charlatans. Guilds and unions exist to protect our rights and they can only exist when everyone follows the rules!”

“Witches have unions?” asked Flynn.

“Well, I am too young to join those organisations!” countered Rapunzel fiercely. “Though,” she chewed the lining of her cheek, “Though I get where you are coming from; we studied workers’ unions at school last week and they do a lot of good.” A grin split her charming face much to their surprise. “Do you have pamphlets?”

“Pamphlets?”

“Yeah! To read about the guilds?”

Hans had not expected Rapunzel to be so very obliging. His earlier quietness was in fact mental preparation for an argument. The House of Westergaard was filled to the brim with argumentative people. Their bickering ranged from trivial matters as to who ate the last slice of cake to whose fault it was that a cousin was missing and why so-and-so returned for afternoon tea with a broken leg.

“I’ll ask Mother,” said Hans with a giddy feeling in his chest. So, _this_ was what it felt like to have your way without having to argue with ten other people for an hour? He could get used to this! “I’m sure she will gladly send us a few.”

Rapunzel gleamed. He offered her his arm, which she accepted after a moment’s startlement. Together they walked up the hill, laughing and discussing Austen’s works, with Flynn Rider trailing behind them.

The eldest of the three, Flynn was long-used to being the centre of attention and read people well. Hans was the first person to treat him with an air of cold indifference, something he quickly learned he disliked. This was part of the reason why he enjoyed riling him so badly. Better to have him scowling and muttering than staring impassively.

 _Well,_ thought the young man, _I’ve one trick left up my sleeve._ One’s brain had to be covered in a thick layer of dusty inactivity to not see that Hans was a creature fond of all that glittered and shone.

Flynn was unsure whether or not his soon-to-be friend was actually a socialite in the making (how busy could a small village be?), but there was a certain je ne sais quoi about him hinting that, given the opportunity, the boy would gladly leave his quiet little village and become a true society lion.

They had returned to the house in good spirits. Hans and Rapunzel went to their respective rooms to leave their books; the former returned with his broom and cat, the latter clad in stockings. Miss Rapunzel, quite like her friend Mr. Rider, was keen on touching the clouds and developed a habit of wearing stockings when she knew the broom would be brought. After all, it never hurt to be prepared.

With two children on their feet and the third gently soaring beside them, they once again sauntered down the hill till the sounds of merriment caught the latter’s attention. “Is today a feast day of sorts?” he asked.

“It’s June,” said Flynn matter-of-factly, as if naming the month cleared up the fog of confusion on the wizard’s face.

“The first week of June is always celebrated in Corona City,” supplied Rapunzel. “We’ve dances and fireworks and parties to welcome summer! Do you have anything similar in Knight’s Roost?”

Hans shook his head. “Our big festivities are mostly in spring and autumn. It suits farmers’ beliefs and schedules better. Our biggest summer party would be the feast honouring the memory of a local hero.”

“I see,” said Rapunzel, thoughtful. 

She then darted her head from her levitating friend and the sound of music. She grabbed Flynn’s hand, leaned close, and whispered a cunning plan into his ear. Before Hans could reprimand them for their rudeness, however, he screamed in fright as Flynn seized him from the broom. Kicking and protesting, they carried him to the small market square to the tune of Rapunzel promising it will be fun.

Unceremoniously put to the ground, Hans and Sitron shakily leaned against the side of a building for stability. Long purple banners flapped around them. Each triangle bore a glowing sun on its face, and the people dancing beneath them wore clothes of lilac and mauve and violet and lavender.

Sitron personally was captivated by the sight of four young girls – sisters by the looks of them – braiding each other hair in what could be considered avantgarde hairstyles.

Hans kept a tight hold on his friend lest he fall and be trampled upon by the dancers. Then it dawned upon him that his dear broom must’ve been left behind; but as he turned to run after it, he saw Flynn Rider perched atop a roof (heavens only knew how he managed to scale it so quickly) clutching its handle like some vulture.

His satisfied grin did not improve the comparison.

As he prepared to curse that hooligan, Rapunzel called out his name and beckoned him to join her in the dance. “You should go!” said Sitron as encouragement.

“Don’t be daft! Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because you like to dance! How many dancing shoes have you destroyed last summer alone?”

Hans, whose face had already coloured, heightened in indignation. “That’s different. I’ve danced with the people of Knight’s Roost since I took my first steps, and—”

Not the one to be passive, Rapunzel twirled to him and forcefully pulled him into the merry current of revellers. Sitron aptly escaped the torrent, choosing instead to join Flynn Rider on the rooftop with whom he shared a knowing smirk.

From their vantage point, the pair saw their friends spin like planets around the glorious sun. It reminded the cat of a popular village song – _We’ll watch as the heavens turn round and round; watch as they turn around; round, round and round…_

“I hate to admit it,” said Flynn to him, “but when Hans said he was a good dancer I did not think he’d be this good. I reckon he’s better than me, and I also like to dance all the time.” He ran a gentle hand through the calico fur, scratching a spot between the shoulder blades that evaded Sitron. “Say – you know him best – do you think if I’m stubborn enough then he will eventually come to like me as much as Rapunzel? Or maybe half as much. I can settle for that too.”

Sitron would have gladly said that Hans had already begun to develop a begrudging affection towards Flynn, though he worried that openly saying it would reverse all of it. Instead he purred loudly, basking in the affection, and curled up on the boy’s warm lap. His tail thumped steadily against the thigh in quiet affirmation.

Flynn, who read animals as well as people, smiled. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Sitron's remembering is "Round and Round" by Erutan!! You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Z4cgXrVKMI


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